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V 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY ♦ CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OP CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THROUGH 
THE SHADOWS 



iBteto porfe 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1922 

All rights reserved 



Copyright, 1922, 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1922. 



g)G!.A6740l3 


CONDK NA3T PRESS, ORBENWIOH, CONIt. 


m i C lb22 


“Vitf 


TO 

THE TRIO WHICH BECAME A QUARTETTE 











PREFACE 


“Oh, I only said that to cheer you up," said the un- 
abashed Michael. “Nothing like a little judicious levity." — 
The Wrong Box. 

“I didn’t say there was no’hing heller,^* the king replied; 
“I said there was nothing like it ." — Alke through the Look- 
ing-Glass. 


To those who accept the doctrine em- 
bodied in the above quotations it will, I hope, 
be needless to apologise for the existence of 
this book; those who do not accept it would 
be mollified by no apologies that I can offer. 

C. A. A. 




CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Baronet’s Move 1 

II The Train of Events 21 

III In Borrowed Plumes 37 

IV CuRAE Edaces 57 

V Chestnuts AND Wine 72 

VI Mother and Sons 82 

VII The Letter Game 93 

VIII An Unholy Alliance 107 

IX Russian Scandal 123 

X Fresh Arrivals 141 

XI A Council of War 158 

XII Fancies and Facts 172 

XIII Imaginary Conversations .... 184 

XIV Confessions . . .* 203 

XV TheBrewer at theBreakfast Table 218 

Epilogue 229 



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CHAPTER I 


THE BARONET’S MOVE 
De Taudace, de I’audace. . . . — Danton. 


iR Richard Atherton laid down 
the letter which he had been read- 
ing with a prolonged sigh of satis- 
faction and helped himself liber- 
ally to marmalade. “That’s all 
right: they’re coming on Mon- 
day,” he observed to Captain England who, 
having already finished his breakfast, was 
deep in an arm-chair engaged in a study of 
the Times, The gallant Captain grunted as 
his only reply. 

His host gazed at him, or at so much of 
him as was at the moment visible. There was 
a look in his eye which the Captain, if less 
occupied, would have recognised as danger- 
ous; there was something furtive in the 
appraising glance; something ruthless in 
the decisive nod which marked a purpose 
formed. 



[ 1 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


But let US deal frankly with the reader. 
Sir Richard, though a baronet, could not 
fairly be described as a typical baronet of 
fiction. Bold he was, and his service with the 
Hussars in Mesopotamia had given reason- 
able proofs of the fact, but bad not even the 
most exacting of his instructors at Eton had 
ever called him. His mother had died when 
he was a child, and his father’s death during 
the war had caused him to leave the Army 
after the Armistice and establish himself in 
the family place in Shropshire where, as he 
described it, he “ploughed the fields and 
scattered” with considerable zest, though it 
is possible that the latter part of his labours 
had the greater attraction for him. 

But it is not to be denied that on this par- 
ticular morning there was an air of cunning 
in his eye which boded ill for his unconscious 
victim. Captain England continued to read 
the paper with the gloomy air of a sportsman 
in late August, when cricket had ceased to 
be interesting, and the student is fobbed off 
with the inglorious annals of lady players of 
croquet and boy players of lawn tennis. 

“Any news, old chap.^” inquired the 
baronet, with a courtesy too marked not to be 
disingenuous. 


[ 2 ] 


THE 


BARONET’S 


MOVE 


The Captain grunted again. “Usual 
sort of rot,” he answered gloomily; “one 
silly old ass writes to say his son’s twice the 
man he was since he took to playing golf; 
another silly old ass has started to run to 
Birmingham and back: and that’s what we 
pay threepence fori” 

“Silly old idiots!” responded his host. 
“Kent done anything?” he added after a 
moment, in the hope of finding a more cheer- 
ful topic. 

“Rained all day: just like their lucki” 
growled the Captain. 

“Rotten!” agreed the sycophantic bar- 
onet: and he resumed the perusal of his 
letters. 

Captain England and he had been at Eton 
together, where they had been united, among 
other things, by a conunon taste for private 
theatricals. England, whose gloomy counte- 
nance had at once earned for him the name 
of “Smiler,” had been the star performer of 
his tutor’s troupe, and it was on record that 
he had beguiled one wet afternoon by visiting 
the school in the character of a Swedish 
professor. The adventure had led to a 
quarter of an hour’s fearful joy during an 
interview with the Librarian, who had been 
[ 3 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

somewhat puzzled to reconcile his visitor’s 
zeal for information in the abstract with his 
obvious desire to bring the conversation to 
a close. Since leaving Eton he had served 
in the Army, and fate had brought the two 
friends together aggdn in Mesopotamia, be- 
fore England was taken prisoner by the 
Turks. Two years’ imprisonment had not 
lessened the gloom of his appearance nor in- 
creased his chances of employment, so that 
when Atherton invited him to come and help 
him in his new duties, as secretary and general 
adviser, he had been glad to agree. “I’ve 
studied up the part all right,” Sir Richard 
had written, “and I think I can do it; but 
what I want is a chap to manage the entrances 
and exits and get the chorus off the stage and 
all that. I’m sure you’re just the man for 
it.” So far the duties had been hght: 
England had developed a talent for concilia- 
ting tenants and a surprising knowledge of 
fat cattle. He had also accompHshed the 
more difificult feat of persuading the local 
Constitutional Union that Sir Richard’s 
brand of Conservatism was precisely that 
which the county was most likely to appreci- 
ate if, as seemed likely, the sitting member 
should decide to retire. It was in his politi- 
[' 4 ] 


THE 


BARONET’S 


MOVE 


cal capacity that he roused himself to ex- 
claim, “By Jove, the old brute’s done it!” 

“Got to Birmingham, do you meanP” 
inquired Sir Richard, who had failed to 
follow his train of thought. 

“No, old Jenkinson has resigned. Listen 
to this: ‘Mr. Thomas Jenkinson, M. P., has 
resigned his seat for the Drayworth Division 
of Shropshire. It is understood that the Co- 
alitionists propose to invite Sir Richard 
Atherton, Bart., M. C., to contest the seat.’ 
Just our luck! You’ll have to be stumping 
the country, old man, instead of blazing at 
the partridges and philandering with the fair 

Miss Here, steady on!” The sentence 

broke off as a well-aimed scone struck the 
reader on the chest. 

“Don’t be a silly idiot!” said his host 
coldly. “Does it say anything elseP” 

‘ ‘I was just going to tell you if you hadn’t 
been in such a hurry, and now you’ll have to 
wait till I’ve cleaned this butter off my waist- 
coat. Now, let me see — ^here we are. ‘Sir 
Richard, who served with distinction in the 
war, is well known for his interest in agri- 
cultural problems, and is understood to 
advocate drastic economies in Government 
expenditure. The other parties have not 
[51 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


as yet selected a candidate, but the spend- 
thrifts of the Coahtion are not in any case 
likely to find much support in this or any 
other constituency.’ You’ll be in for an 
Anti-Waste campaign, old chap, and that 
means a rare lot of talking. It’s a baddish 
look-out for your house party.” 

The candidate-designate betrayed no signs 
of elation. 

“Oh, confound it all,” he said, “they’ll 
have to wait a week or so. Sign of respect 
to the late member and all thatl I’m not 
going to spoil everything just for them. You 
must see them. Tommy, and talk to them like 
a mother.” 

“Oh, all right,” said his friend, “I’ll see 
what I can do. I daresay I could keep your 
end up for you: you won’t want me here. 
Let me see: how would it read in the papers.^ 

“ ‘Sir nichard, who has only recently suc- 
ceeded to a considerable estate, feels that his 
first duty is to his tenants. The first week 
of September is a time when every landlord 
should be among his own people. During 
his temporary absence his agent. Captain 
England, who has appeared on many plat- 
forms both in Europe and Asia, has taken 
charge of his elector^ interests. Those who 
[61 


THE 


BARONET’S 


MOVE 


are familiar with the two gentlemen are 
agreed that the constituency stands to gain 
by the exchange.’ That’s the line, I think!” 

But the baronet showed no signs of re- 
sponding to his friend’s humour. 

‘T do wish you’d be serious for a minute, 
Smiler; it’s not nearly so simple as you think. 
Here, read that,” and he threw over a letter. 

The Captain perused it. “Well, what’s 
the matter?” he asked. 

“Have you read it?” inquired Sir Richard. 

“Yes, it’s not very obscure: 

Dear Sir Richard — My daughter and I are 
glad to accept your very kind invitation for Au- 
gust 31st. I shall much look forward to meeting 
your sister, Mrs. Howard, for though we have 
never met, I think we must have common friends 
in Norfolk. It will he a special pleasure also to 
have the chance of a talk with Professor Lapski 
after our interesting conversation of last week. 
My daughter joins in kind regards. Yours sin- 
cerely, 

Pauline Branson. 

Well, what’s the matter with that? She’s 
coming and the fair Diana is coming: what 
more do you want? Who’s this professor 
she seems so keen about.^” 

[ 7 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

Sir Richard had finished his breakfast and 
was lighting a cigarette. He felt a certain 
embarrassment, and his brief experience of 
the stage had shown him the value of that 
resource. 

“Well, you see,” he answered, “Mrs. 
Branson is fearfully keen on thought-reading 
and spiritualism and all that, and I know she 
thinks I’m a fearful fool, and so, just to keep 
my end up, I pitched her no end of a yarn 
about this fellow Lapski and all he’d done. 
She swallowed it down like anything, and 
then I got a bit carried away with my subject, 
and I was awfully keen to get them here, and 
so I said if she’d come I’d ask him to meet 
her and — ^well, there you are, you seel” 
“Well, what about it?” asked Captain 
England . ‘ ‘Won’t he come ? ’ ’ 

The baronet approached his friend and 
laid a hand sympathetically on his shoulder. 
“My dear old chap,” he said, “there are 
times when your slowness positively makes 
me weep. There’s no such chap as Lapski 
in the wide world, or at least, if there is, I 
don’t know where to find him. ‘You can 
search me,’ as Ella Wheeler Wilcox or one of 
those high-souled American writers said in a 
moment of exaltationi” 

[ 8 ] 


THE 


BARONET’S 


MOVE 


The Captain whistled. “I see,” he said. 
“Well, all you can do is to tell them he’s 
prevented at the last moment: sudden ill- 
ness of Mrs. Lapski — I suppose you told 
her he was married? Or he might be elected 
President of somewhere. Did you tell her 
he was a Pole or a Yugo-Slav or what?” 

But Sir Richard was in no mood for badin- 
age. 

“Of com-se I thought of all that,” he 
answered, “but there’s no doubt she’ll be 
awfully disappointed. She’s quite likely to 
cut up rough and make inquiries, and then 
the whole thing will come out and a pretty 
sort of fool I shall look. No, old chap, I’ve 
thought it all out, and sorry as I am to have 
to say it, there’s only one thing for it, and 
that’s for you to be Lapski.” 

The Captain uttered a shout of protest, but 
Sir Richard, now warming to his idea, waved 
his opposition aside and went on. “Yes, 
I’ve thought the whole thing out. It was 
last night it occurred to me. Tt can be 
done,’ I said to myself, ‘and England must 
do it,’ like that old Johnny in the National 
Gallery or somewhere who couldn’t find the 
North Pole or something. You know, old 
man, you’re rather a dab at thought-reading. 

[ 9 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

You’ve told me a lot of yarns you played off 
on those old Turks, and I’ll tell you a lot 
about every one in the house; and with a pair 
of spectacles and a wig — ^why, for a clever 
chap like you it’s as easy as backgammon! I 
know you won’t go back on a friend, old 
man.” (At this point Sir Richard’s manner 
became almost emotional — a fact which did 
the more credit to his histrionic powers as 
Captain England remained notably unim- 
pressed.) ‘ ‘And now you know why, when I 
heard you talk about those speeches you’d go 
and make I just felt I couldn’t bear it. ‘What 
are two or three speeches on pohtical plat- 
forms to saving a friend’s honour.^’ I said to 
myself, ‘WTiat is pohtics compared to affec- 
tion.^’ Or look at it another way. Here 
are you offering to represent me before a lot 
of yokels who don’t know the difference 
between Northcliffe and Southdown, and 
what am I offering you in exchanga^ ^Miy, 
a position of European importance! the 
chance of being one of the world’s great 
pioneers! (I tell you I pitched it in un- 
common hot to the old lady.) The more I 
think of it, Smiler, old feUow,” he went on, 
ringing the bell as he spoke, “the clearer I 
am that I should be wrong to stand between 
110 ] 


THE 


BARONET’S 


MOVE 


you and a really good opportunity. No, I 
won’t hear a word!” as Captain England 
endeavoured to make himself heard, ‘ ‘I know 
your self-denying nature. You’ll have the 
time of your hfe — artistic instinct long sup- 
pressed, and all that, finding a fair field at 
last! Wilson,” as the butler appeared, “will 
you please have Captain England’s things 
packed at once.^ he will be going away for a 
week.” 

“Yes, Sir Richard. A telegram just come 
for you, sir!” Sir Richard read it and threw 
it over to Captain England. 

“What a nuisance! Alice can’t come: 
one of her boys has got measles.” 

“But if Mrs. Howard can’t come to act 
as hostess,” said the Captain with a gleam of 
hope fighting up his gloomy features, “the 
whole thing will have to be off. You can’t 
have a lot of ladies in a bachelor establishment 
like this. I may not be going away after all, 
Wilson,” he added, turning to the butler. 

Sir Richard’s countenance had for the 
moment fallen, but his brow cleared, and 
turning to the butler with the air of a Napo- 
leon rising to meet a crisis he said, “Get on 
to 1785 Gerrard, please.” 

The telephone was just outside the door 
[ 11 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


of the breakfast room, and the presence of 
Wilson acted as a bar to further intimate 
conversation. 

Silence fell upon the two friends: Captain 
England gazed gloomily out of the window 
or made desperate efforts to read the finan- 
cial pages of the Times, while his host walked 
up and down, whistling gently to himself, 
with an occasional chuckle as though his 
thoughts were not unpleasant. It was Cap- 
tain England who broke the silence by growl- 
ing out, ‘ ‘By the way, who are coming to this 
party of yours supposing it does come offP” 

Sir Richard was all geniahty. “That’s 
right, old chap,” he said, “I’m so glad you’re 
beginning to sit up and take notice again. 
For a thought-reader there’s nothing like 
studying up your audience a bit beforehand. 
Well, there’s Uncle Bob: Aunt Ehzabeth 
can’t come, and I don’t think he’s broken- 
hearted. She’s got a religious craze on just 
now and is always running about to some new 
kind of service: rather rough on my old 
uncle, who only wants to be left in peace. 
‘The godly and decent order of the Church 
of England’ is quite good enough for him. 
Then there’s one of the Ranby twins: you 
don’t know them, do youP Anyhow, I bet 
[121 


THE 


BARONET’S 


MOVE 


you wouldn’t know them apart! And old 
Montford, who used to be a beak at Eton: 
he’s an Archdeacon now and a topping good 
shot. He always was a pretty good shot 
with a hook,” he went on, chuckling. “Do 
you remember his dropping one on your head 
when you were asleep in five-o’clock school 
at the far end of the room.^^” 

The Captain chuckled, and encouraged by 
this sign of appreciation. Sir Richard con- 
tinued: “Then there’s his daughter. I’ve 
an idea Ranby is rather sweet on her, but I’m 
not sure: anyhow I haven’t told him she’s 
coming, so there’ll be no harm done. I just 
remember her when I was a boy: haven’t 
seen her since. That’s about all, I think — 
of course there was Alice, but now she’s off. 
— Well, what luck.^” he broke off as Wilson 
reappeared. 

“You’re through, sir,” said Wilson, and 
Sir Richard went to the telephone. 

It is never pleasant to hsten to the half of 
a conversation, and Captain England made 
desperate efforts to divert his mind; but the 
rain of the day before had sadly abbreviated 
the cricket news, and neither the rights of 
Silesia nor the wrongs of Ireland made a 
sufficiently intimate appeal. The thought 
[131 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


of his own future in the role of a thought- 
reader of uncertain nationahty, the impend- 
ing sacrifice of his moustache (for the artist in 
him had reahsed its inevitable doom even 
while he was fighting against his fate) — all 
these things conspired to depress him, and 
his depression was increased by the idiotic 
snatches of conversation which reached him 
from time to time. 

“Well, that is perfectly splendid of you — 
What? — No, they won’t have the least idea 
— What?” (a prolonged pause). “No, did 
she though? My word I I wonder what 
she’ll say to my uncle! he’s one himself, you 
know. — What? — ^yes, perhaps. — Well, thanks 
awfully — au revoir!” 

The telephone was hung up and Sir Rich- 
ard re-entered briskly. It was no longer 
the young Napoleon stung with the splendour 
of a sudden thought, but the conqueror enter- 
ing in triumph with fresh laurels on his brow. 

“She’ll do it,” he said. “That girl’s a 
topper!” 

“I wonder if you mean that you’ve found 
some one to take the part of Madame 
Lapski,” said the Captain nervously, “be- 
cause, if so, I’m bound to say there are 
limits ” 


[141 


THE 


BARONET’S 


MOVE 


“Oh no, old chap, I don’t even believe 
there is one. Now I think of it. I’m pretty 
sure that I said he’d had most interesting 
talks with her spirit. I must try and remem- 
ber. No, this is Mary Summers, my cousin, 
you know; I’ve asked her if she’ll come down 
and be hostess, and she says she will.” 

“But she’s not married, is she? No, of 
course she can’t be, and that won’t make 
things any better.” 

“Well, you see,” said Sir Richard a little 
guiltily, and yet with an air of conscious 
pride, “I’ve asked her if she’d come and be 
Alice, just for a bit, you know.” 

‘ 'Be Alice! ” exclaimed the Captain; ‘ ‘what 
do you mean? ” 

“Well, you see, Mrs. Branson’s never seen 
Alice: you saw she said so in that letter, 
so she’d never know. And after all they’re 
just about the same age, and she’s always 
been like a sister to me, and all that. Be- 
sides, they aren’t so awfully unlike, after all.” 

“But my dear Dick, the thing’s absurd. 
Why, all the servants will know her and give 
the thing away.” 

“I don’t believe they will — except Wilson, 
and he’s aU right: let’s ask him. Wilson,” 
he went on to the butler, who had reappeared 
[151 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

to clear away the breakfast, “how long is it 
since Miss Alice was here? some time, isn’t 
it?” 

“Yes, Sir Richard; in fact I hardly think 
she’s been here since she was married. You 
see, what with the war and this house being 
shut up and used as a hospital and what not 
I couldn’t really say she’s been here since 
then, sir.” 

“Then I suppose none of the servants 
have ever seen her? ” 

“No, sir, no, I should say not: you see, 
sir, in these days, what with coming and 
going, there’s never been what you might call 
any servants of any standing.” 

“There, Tommy, what did I tell you? I 
do hope that’ll be a lesson to you not to be 
always making difficulties. By the way, 
Wilson, Miss Ahce is coming here next 
week: you’ll find her a bit altered, I expect. 
Joy and sorrow, you know, Wilson, they 
change us all; but you’re a married man your- 
self and you understand what I mean. You’d 
better not say anything about it perhaps: it’s 
rather a delicate business — ^but there, you 
imderstand! ” 

“I fancy I do, sir,” said the faithful 
Wilson. He glanced at Captain England with 
116 ] 


the BARONET’S MOVE 

the ghost of a smile on his lips, but the ex- 
pression of intensified gloom on the face of 
that hardened soldier froze it into nothing, 
and he resumed his task at the breakfast table. 

“Well, well, now that’s settled, let’s come 
out and smoke on the terrace,” said Sir 
Richard. 

Captain England followed hm through 
the French window: he was meditating 
deeply, and to judge by the muttered words 
that escaped him his meditations were any- 
thing but pleasant. His host smoked cheer- 
fully, glancing at him now and then with 
ill-concealed amusement. 

“By the way,” said Captain England 
suddenly, “what was that about your uncle? 
When you were telephoning, I mean, there 
seemed to be some difficulty about him — not 
that a difficulty more or less matters in this 
infernal folly!” 

“Oh that!” answered Sir Richard airily; 
“well, he’s a brewer, you see.” 

“And why shouldn’t he be?” 

“Well, it so happens Mrs. Branson is a 
pussyfoot: I didn’t quite know how bad it 
was, but Mary tells me there was rather a 
nasty scene at the Winterbottoms the other 
night when she went for a harmless old 
[ 17 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


beggar who was a brewer and cursed him up 
and down. Jolly lucky I heard about it. I 
don’t want to have her making things nasty 
for poor old Uncle Bob.” 

“Well, what are you going to do about 
it?” asked England sarcastically; “tell him 
to say he’s Carpentier, I suppose?” 

Sir Richard’s serenity was unimpaired. 
“Well, as you ask me,” said he, “I was 
thinking of asking him to say he was a retired 
Indian Civilian. She can’t have any objec- 
tion to them.” 

“And what about his objections?” asked 
the destined impersonator of the Professor of 
thought-reading; “does it ever occm* to you 
that people mayn’t like being made fools of 
just to please you? How do you suppose I 
like it? And now the whole blessed house 
is going to be full of people who aren’t 
what they pretend to bel You’ll get into 
trouble, young man, and so I tell you, and if 
it gets out that you’re conducting a perform- 
ing circus like this you can whistle for your 
seat in Parliament!” 

Sir Richard was unmoved by this outburst. 
He whistled an air from Pinafore which the 
exasperated ear of his friend identified as 
being “Things are seldom what they seem.” 

[ 18 ] 


the BARONET’S MOVE 

and it was with an almost paternal kindli- 
ness that he addressed his assailant. 

“My dear old chap,” he said, “I do wish 
you wouldn’t try and look on the dark side of 
things: it’s not right, you know, it’s not 
right I Old Pocock sadd so last week at that 
bazaar when there wasn’t any milk for the 
tea and the dog had eaten all the cake, and I 
did think it was so wise of him. Here am 
I working my heart out for you and what do 
I get for it? Do try and just look at it like 
a reasonable man. You’re to be a thought- 
reader, aren’t you? Well, what’s the chief 
difficulty of a thought-reader? To find out 
what people are really thinking of, isn’t it? 
especially when they don’t look it, eh? 
And here I am presenting you with two 
absolutely sitting shots and all you do is to 
curse and swear like a trooper! Why, if 
you play your cards right your fortune’s 
simply made. You’ll be a howling success — 
the feature of the next London season! Do 
be a reasonable chap and show a httle decent 
gratitude. Now I’ve got a lot to think 
about: you come along and practise reading 
my thoughts — or you might try on Wilson, 
I bet he’s got some worth knowing.” 

And, stiU talking, the irrepressible baronet 
[191 


TEH ROUGH THE SHADOWS 

drove his ill-fated friend into the house, 
pausing for a moment to declaim with a 
theatrical passion which deserved a more 
sympathetic audience: 

Nought shall make us rue 
If England to himself will be but true! 


120 ] 


CHAPTER II 

THE TRAIN OF EVENTS 
. . . et toujours de I’audace. — D anton. 


R. Walton settled himself down in 
a first-class carriage with a feeling 
of undisguised content. He had 
the carriage to himself, and he 
was enough of a connoisseur in 
railway travelling to appreciate 
the comfort of two or three hours in a Great 
Western express. He was looking forward to 
his visit: Richard Atherton was his favourite 
nephew: the house was comfortable and he 
was glad to be visiting it again after the long 
interruption of the war: birds were reported 
to be plentiful, and the shooting he knew to 
be of the old-fashioned kind which he had 
learnt to enjoy in his youth. Anyhow he 
was free from work for a fortnight or so, and, 
successful man of business though he was, he 
was not above revelling in a holiday. Nor 
can it be denied that he bore the prospect of 
1211 



THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


a brief separation from his wife with a cheer- 
fulness worthy of a better cause. Mrs. Wal- 
ton, to whom he was sincerely attached, had 
recently shown a tendency towards ritual and 
ritualists with which he found it hard to 
sympathise: “Life and Liberty” had been all 
very well: his drawing-room had always been 
at the service of its advocates, and he had 
spent many hours listening, not without edi- 
fication, to denunciations of existing abuses 
in the Church and exhortations to the laity 
to rise in their thousands and abolish them. 
This was a matter of sound common sense, 
and Mr. Walton had all the Englishman’s 
desire to see conunon sense apphed to Church 
finance and Church affairs generally. But 
the tack on which his wife (at the instigation 
of one of the more eloquent of his former 
alhes) had recently gone seemed to him far 
from being sensible: he could only hope that 
it was equally far from being common. New 
phrases were swimming into his ken, and 
Mr. Walton, though he prided himself on 
being that rara avis a Libered brewer, was a 
strict Conservative in matters affecting the 
Enghsh language. He disfiked the word 
Mass: he held strong views on the pro- 
nunciation of the word Cathohc: he was 
[ 22 ] 


THE TRAIN OF EVENTS 


unable to believe that the verb “to com- 
municate” could be used transitively. He 
had no idea what the service of Benediction 
meant, and had shown unmistakably that he 
did not want to learn. 

Enough has perhaps been said to explain 
in some measure the sigh of contentment 
with which he heard the guard’s v/histle blow 
and felt the train ghde slowly out under the 
ugliest bridge in Europe. 

He drew a letter from his pocket and read 
it again. 

Dear Uncle Bob (it began) — I’m awfully 
glad that you’re coming to-morrow and hope we 
shall have some decent sport. I think you’ll like 
the party. Alice is coming to look after you: she 
says you haven’t met for five years and she hard- 
ly thinks you’ll know her again. Then there’s 
Montford, who used to be at Eton, and his 
daughter, and young Ranby (the twin, you 
know). And I’ve got a Mrs. Branson and her 
daughter staying for a few days: they’re Ameri- 
cans. I met them in Paris last Spring. Oh, by 
the way, I do hope you won’t mind awfully, 
but she’s a fearful pussyfoot (Mrs. B. of course, 
I mean; her daughter’s quite different), and I 
was so afraid she might have a row with you 
and I let her think you were an Indian Civilian 
[ 23 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


— retired, you know — just to save trouble. 

She won’t know anything about India and you 

won’t have to say anything, but it would have 

been sickening to have a row, wouldn’t it? 

I do hope you won’t think I’ve let you in, but 

I was in an awful fright when she began lashing 

out about beer, and saying she hoped none of 

my relatives were in that devilish business. So 

I just didn’t see what I could say, and India 

seemed the simplest thing: I suppose it was 

Uncle Arthur’s being there made me think 

about it. So do forgive me, and after all, I 

daresay it won’t come up at all. We’ll send in 

to meet the 6.52. I’m so sorry Aunt Elizabeth 

can’t come: please give her my love. Your aff. 

nephew, * 

Hichard Atherton. 

P.S , — By the way, perhaps it’s rather lucky 
about Aunt Elizabeth after all: she mightn’t 
quite understand about India. 

P.P.S, — It’s just occurred to me that you 
might like to say you were Uncle Arthur: but 
then there might be more difficulties, so please 
do just as you think best. — R. A. 

No doubt it was the pleasant circumstances 
in which this letter was read which caused 
Mr. Walton to accept it with surprising 
equanimity: it is just possible too that the 
first postscript contributed to his readiness to 
[ 24 ] 


THE TRAIN OF EVENTS 

play the part so audaciously thrust upon him. 
It was quite true that Aunt Elizabeth would 
have been very far from “understanding 
about India,” whatever that noble phrase 
might he taken to involve. There is some- 
thing in sharing a secret, even though it be 
a rather discreditable one, and the fact re- 
mains that Mr. Walton, after shaking his 
head and muttering, “Confound the young 
brute!” chuckled gently to himself as he 
replaced the letter in his pocket. 

From High Wycombe to Leamington he 
slept the sleep of the just: at Leamington and 
Birmingham his luck still held good and his 
privacy was undistiu*bed, and he felt that he 
had no cause of complaint when at Wolver- 
hampton two intruders entered his carriage. 
The first, who established himself in the seat 
opposite him, was a stout gentleman whose 
gold watch-chain revelled in its opportunities 
for display: the second, a cherubic young 
man in a grey flannel suit and dark tie who 
settled down in the other corner. His port- 
able luggage consisted of a gun-case, and the 
porter who put it in appeared to know him 
well. He was soon deep in a perusal of the 
Field, 

The stout gentleman felt the heat, as stout 
[ 25 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


gentlemen will: it made him restless, and 
after some ineffectual efforts to go to sleep it 
was clear that he was bent on conversation. 
He had brought a local paper with him and 
found there his text for a frontal attack on 
Mr. Walton. 

“I don’t know what we’re coming to,” he 
said indignantly; “here’s a young parson 
telling the Government it ought to take over 
all the breweries. Have you seen this, sir? 
Let me read it you. 

“Titled Cleric on Trade Scandals 

“The Hon. the Rev. Paul Ranby in an ad- 
dress to the C.E.M.S. at Withbeach on Friday 
denounced the liquor traffic as a disgrace to a 
Christian country. The reverend gentleman 
declared that if the Government did its duty it 
would take forcible steps to stop drink being 
sold in this country for private profit. Mr. 
Ranby, who is the younger son of the Earl of 
Stoke, is becoming a well-known figure on La- 
bour platforms in the district.” 

“I call it a disgrace,” he went on hotly. 
“Why can’t a parson stick to his job? he 
knows very well the Trade’s always been a 
good friend to the Church. Bitin’ the hand 
that feeds him, I call it! I don’t hold with 
[ 26 ] 


THE TRAIN OF EVENTS 


parsons in politics, stirring up ill feeling and 
setting people against one another. Damned 
insolent young aristocrat! What does he 
know about it, I should like to know.^” 

Mr. Walton had listened with some em- 
barrassment to this tirade: he had been a 
brewer long enough to have had cause often 
to pray for salvation from his friends, and he 
hesitated for a moment before replying. It 
was with relief as well as surprise that he 
heard the cherubic young gentleman in the 
corner take up the conversation. 

“I don’t quite see,” he said gently, “why 
a parson shouldn’t have an opinion about 
drink: any one who drinks in this country is 
bound to be some one’s parishioner, unless 
they’re aU bona fide travellers, I mean, like 
you and me, and that’s rather a lot to expect.” 
The stout gentleman glared indignantly. 
“Well, young man,” he said, “what I say 
is, it’ll be a bad day for this country when 
parsons take to politics; and who is this 
young Ranby anyway.^ A conceited young 
puppy, m be bound.” 

“\^en I made that speech,” said the 
young gentleman with an air of extreme de- 
tachment, “I wasn’t thinking about politics, 
I was thinking about my parish. If you’d 
[ 27 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

worked in the Potteries for five years you’d 
have seen enough drink to last you for your 
hfetime without taking any yourself. It 
cured me, I can tell you.” 

And he resumed his study of the Field, 
The stout gentleman gasped. Like so many 
of his class, he combined a theoretical con- 
tempt for the aristocracy with a strong 
practical veneration for them: and the idea 
that he had insulted the son of Lord Stoke, 
whose name is a power in the Midlands, 
combined with the heat to reduce him to an 
almost apoplectic condition. 

“No offence, I hope, sir,” he murmured. 

“Not in the least,” said Mr. Ranby: 
“would you care to look at the Field? 

His antagonist accepted the offer grate- 
fully: the trio travelled in silence to Shrews- 
bury, when the stout gentleman, again mur- 
mming apologies, made haste to descend and 
to spread, no doubt, among his acquaintances 
the story of the singular affability of Lord 
Stoke’s younger son. “Quite a nice little 
talk we had together: not as we agreed, cer- 
tainly, but I told him just what I thought, 
and he was as pleasant as could be. It’s not 
every one can tell a gentleman when they 
[281 


THE TRAIN OF EVENTS 


see one, but trust me, he’s the real thing and 
no mistake!” 

Mr. Ranby allowed Mr. Walton to precede 
him. ‘ ‘I wonder if I was an ass,” he thought 
to himself, as he slowly got down his gun- 
case from the rack: “hut I couldn’t hear 
him abuse old Paul like that without saying 
something — and it was much more complete 
to give it him straight from the shoulder. 
By Jove, it was a score though!” And he 
chuckled audibly to himself. ‘ ‘But it’s 
made me quite warm,” he went on; “I think 
I’ll go and have a drink. When’s the train 
for Drayworth, porter?” 

“You’ve got twenty minutes, sir.” 

“Good business!” said the pseudo Mr. 
Ranby, and having given instructions to the 
porter, he betook himself to the refreshment- 
room. He ordered a gin and ginger and 
stood waiting idly by the counter, when he 
became aware of the presence of Mr. Walton 
who had come up behind him. 

“Excuse me,” said the latter, “but I 
should just like to tell you how much I 
enjoyed your little spar with that old bounder 
in the train. I don’t mean that I go all the 
way with you, but he deserved all he got. 
Shocking old brute! A glass of beer, please,” 
[ 29 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


he went on to the barmaid. “Now there,” 
he added, turning to his neighbour, “there’s 
a good thing you’ve cut yourself off from: I 
don’t say I don’t respect your principles, 
mind you, but I should be very sorry not to 
be able to have my glass of beer on a warm 
day.” 

“Your gin and ginger, sir,” said the bar- 
maid, placing a glass on the counter. 

The pseudo Mr. Ranby caught a glance 
of siKprise on Mr. Walton’s countenance: 
in a moment his decision was taken. “I’m 
afraid I only asked for ginger beer,” he said 
meekly. 

“You said gin and ginger,” said the bar- 
maid severely. 

“Oh no, surely not,” said he; “the fact is 
I’ve got an unfortunate stammer and I must 
have said gin-ginger beer by mistalte. Of 
course I’ll pay for it,” he went on, seeing her 
still unconvinced, “and perhaps you, sir, 
will be good enough to drink itP” 

“No, no,” said Mr. Walton, laughing. 
“I’m sorry not to help you, but I don’t care 
for these new-fangled drinks. Here’s my 
glass of beer — that’s all I care for.” 

The pair drank in silence; the younger 
revolving mournfully the difficulty into which 
[ 30 ] 


THE TRAIN OF EVENTS 


his momentary outburst had plunged him. 
“However,” he thought hopefully, “the old 
boy’s safe to go off soon, and I can nip 
round to the other platform: they can’t know 
I’m a temperance enthusiast there!” His 
companion’s next words undeceived him. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but aren’t 
you going to the Athertons P I saw you had 
a gun with you, and I think — ^yes, I remember 
now, of course! You’re the Mr. Ranby my 
nephew told me was coming. That’s very 
good, we can continue our journey together.” 

The heart of the pseudo Mr. Ranby sank 
lower and lower. Memories of his childhood 
ran hurriedly through his brain, 

0 what a tangled web we weave 
When first we practise to deceive. 

* ‘And this is a tangled web and no mistake! ” 
thought he: “can Dick have told him Paul 
was coming? Anyhow, there’s no help for 
it now.” And he said aloud, “Yes, Dick 
Atherton’s an old friend of mine. And 
you’re his uncle! Of course we must go on 
together.” 

Mr. Walton paid for his glass of beer and 
preceded his victim to the carriage. The 
victim’s brain was working wildly: a thought 
occurred to him. “I’ll be with you in a 
[ 31 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


minute,” he said, and watching Mr. Walton 
out of sight he dashed hurriedly into the 
telegraph office. He scribbled a few words. 

Morgan, Pentworth Hall, Stoke. Please for- 
ward no letters to Dr ay worth. Ranby. 

“Anyhow, that’ll give me a day or two to 
look round,” he said with a sigh; “but I wish 
to goodness I knew a httle more about the 
clerical life! What’s more, I wish to good- 
ness I’d held my tongue altogether, but it’s 
too late now.” With this sage reflection he 
made his way to the Drayworth train. 

Mr. Walton welcomed him heartily. He 
had taken quite a fancy to the young clergy- 
man, with which possibly the unclerical cut 
of his grey suit had something to do. He 
looked forward to some discussions with him 
on modern tendencies in the Church, and was 
sure that he would find in him a sympathetic 
hearer for some of his grievances against the 
neo-Catholics. 

Besides he was, as has been hinted, a 
broad-minded man, and young Mr. Ranby ’s 
attack on drink had appealed to his sense of 
chivalry. He was anxious to hear more 
from one who clearly spoke from first-hand 
experience. 


132 ] 


THE TRAIN OF EVENTS 


“I was much interested,” he began, “in 
what you were saying to our friend in the 
train. I suppose there is no doubt that 
things are pretty bad in the Potteries. I 
should like to know what your view is of the 
remedy?” 

His companion hesitated for a moment. 
“Oh, I don’t wish to pose as a statesman,” 
he said; ‘ ‘I only know something of the harm 
drink does in a poor town parish. I’m very 
ready to learn wisdom, whatever our stout 
friend may think. Is it a subject you’ve 
studied at all yourself?” 

“Well, the fact is,” began Mr. Walton, 
“I’ve had occasion to consider it rather 
closely.” 

He was feehng in his pocket for his pouch 
as he spoke: he brought it out, and with 
it his nephew’s letter, which he had com- 
pletely forgotten. 

“That is” — ^he went on more slowly — 
“so far, of course, as my opportunities have 
permitted. In India one gets out of touch 
with home problems very completely.” 

“Oh, you know India, do you?” said 
Ranhy, clutching at the chance of turning 
the conversation from the Potteries. “My 
[331 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


brother-in-law’s just been sent out there — 
to Madras. Was that your part at all?” 

“It was no/,” answered Mr. Walton with 
emphasis. “My district was in the extreme 
interior — an almost inaccessible part, in fact. 
You must remember,” he went on, fearing 
that he might be committing himself too 
deeply, “you must remember, of course, Mr. 
Ranby, that India is a very big place — ^much 
bigger than Europe; without Russia no 
doubt,” he added, with a hazy idea of hedg- 
ing. 

“Did you come across much drunkenness 
in India?” asked the inquiring Ranby, who 
was fully conscious that attack is the best 
defence. 

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Walton solemnly, 

‘ ‘you can’t exaggerate it: I shall never 
forget the scenes, the awful scenes, that I’ve 
witnessed at a native debauch.” 

“Really, that’s very interesting! I’d no 
idea of it. Now what do the beggars drink? ” 

Mr. Walton’s pipe was drawing badly. 
Before answering the question he had to 
remove it from his mouth and perform some 
intricate operations: an observer would have 
said that his brow was puckered with deeper 
thought than any pipe could cause. 

[ 34 ] 


THE TRAIN OF EVENTS 


“Bang!” he said at last suddenly. 

“I beg your pardon?” said Ranby in some 
surprise. 

“Bang, that’s the name of it. I wish I 
could forget it,” he went on unblushingly. 
“I never wish to be reminded of it again.” 

He spoke with such fervour that Ranby 
gazed at him in some surprise: he had heard 
of the choleric nature of old Anglo-Indians, 
but Mr. Walton’s rosy countenance bore no 
trace of the ravages of an Eastern sun. How- 
ever, there was no doubt that it showed that 
the subject was a painful one, and (so long as 
he did not revert to the domestic problems 
of the Potteries) Ranby had every desire to 
spare him. He gave a sympathetic murmur 
and picked up the Field once more, glancing 
from time to time at his companion, whose 
equanimity had been so strangely ruffled. 
“Poor old bird,” he said to himself, “I sup- 
pose the climate’s played the deuce with his 
liver!” 

Mr. Walton’s meditations were less serene. 
“Confound that young ass of a nephew of 
mine!” he reflected: “why on earth couldn’t 
he have thought of something else? I shall 
have to be careful about my facts. I suppose 
there’s an Encyclopaedia in the house, but 
[ 35 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


fancy a man of my age having to spend his 
holiday cramming up facts out of a geography 
book! I’ve a very good mind to tell Dick I 
won’t do it. But then there’s this young 
parson; he’ll think I’m a lunatic! Why in 
the world couldn’t I have held my tongue 
instead of talking like that? I wonder if 
there is a stuff called Bang? I’m sure I’ve 
heard of it somewhere. I shall have to look 
that up now, I suppose. Oh, confound 
Richard!” 

Immersed in such meditations, the pair 
traversed in silence the short distance from 
Shrewsbury to Dray worth; a motor awaited 
them and, buoyed up by a common deter- 
mination to take Dick into their counsels 
at the earliest opportunity, they completed 
their journey to the Manor. 


136 ] 


CHAPTER III 

IN BORROWED PLUMES 


Clothes are emblematic not of want only but of a 
manifold cunning Victory over Want.— C arlyle, Sartor 
Resartus. 


N their arrival at the house disap- 
pointment awaited them. It was 
Wilson who dealt the blow. 

‘ ‘Sir Richard told me to say he 
was very sorry, sir, but he’s been 
called away to a pohtical meeting: 
I believe it has to do with his being elected 
for Parhament and it seemed it was quite 
necessary he should be there. He went off 
just after tea and asked me to tell you he 
wouldn’t be back till very late — ^perhaps not 
tiU to-morrow morning, as he might get kept. 
He was most particular that I should tell you 
how sorry he was, and I was to be sure and 
see that you had everything you wanted.” 

The one thing which both our travellers 
most wanted was beyond Wilson’s power to 
supply, and it was with renewed gloom that 
[ 37 ] 



THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


they took their way to their rooms, for it was 
time to dress for dinner. 

“By the way, Wilson, who’s staying 
here?” asked Mr. Walton as they went up- 
stairs. “Has Mrs. Howard come?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Wilson; “yes, sir, Mrs. 
Howard has come.” 

There was a touch of unnecessary emphasis 
in the answer which made Mr. Walton glance 
at him, but Wilson went on with his list. 

“And there’s Mrs. and Miss Branson, the 
American ladies, and Archdeacon Montford 
and Miss Montford — and there’s Professor 
Lapski.” 

“Lapski? Who’s he?” asked Ranhy. 

‘ T’ve never heard of him.” 

“Well, I don’t rightly know, my Lord,” 
answered Wilson; “he seems a foreign kind 
of gentleman, but he only came just after tea, 
just after Sir Richard left, in fact.” 

‘ ‘You mustn’t mix me up with my brother, 
Wilson,” said Ranby, smiling. 

“I’m sure I beg pardon, sir,” said Wilson, 
“but I understood Sir Richard to say ” 

“Oh, you needn’t apologise! It’s a mis- 
take that’s been made before,” the young 
man answered, with that charming smile 
which had won so many hearts — but to him- 
138 ] 


IN BORROWED PLUMES 


self he added under his breath, “That was a 
near thing! I hope to goodness I shall 
keep on remembering!” 

Peter Ranby had dissembled his satisfac- 
tion at the news that Miss Montford formed 
one of the house party, but he was no sooner 
alone than he gave vent to his delight. 
“That’s jolly good of old Dick,” said he to 
himself, “and fancy his not teUing me! I 
owe him a good turn for that.” He was 
whisthng gaily as he unlocked his suit-case, 
when a sudden thought froze the air on his 
bps. ‘ ‘Good Lord! ” he groaned aloud; ‘ ‘and 
I’ve got to swear that I’m Paul! What a 
frightful business!” He sat down on the 
edge of his bed, the picture of innocence in 
distress. The situation was indeed acute, 
and its dangers, which had seemed real 
enough already, now suddenly appeared in a 
more sombre hue: he cursed his folly more 
bitterly than ever. 

Indeed — and altogether apart from this 
last comphcation — there was no doubt that 
of the two conspirators Lord Ranby occupied 
at the moment the more exposed position: 
Mr. Walton, after all, had only to meet 
conversational dangers and his constitutional 
optimism was fast reasserting itself. Ranby 
[39] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

had realised during his brief period of 
meditation in the train that a searching 
trial must soon await him: in the train a 
dark grey suit was all very well: out 
shooting no one could find fault with a 
clergyman whose costume was a trifle uncon- 
ventional or even aggressively lay. Eve- 
ning dress was a more serious problem — ‘ ‘a 
stiffish fence,” he had called it to himself. 
It would no doubt be possible to shirk the 
difficulty altogether by simply wearing a lay 
costume at the risk of appearing, or rather 
making Paul appear, careless of convention. 
But the artist in Peter revolted against such 
a confession of weakness: it would be to 
acknowledge a small defeat at the very out- 
set, which could not but have a discouraging 
effect on the whole campaign. He decided 
to face the difficulty hke a man, and his spirits 
were too good to be easily damped. At 
Winchester he and his brother had been con- 
spicuous for a superabundance of vitahty, 
and their cherubic countenances had early 
won them the name of the Heavenly Twins, 
though a less flattering adjective had not in- 
frequently been substituted by those whom 
their vitaflty annoyed. At Oxford, proctors 
had had occasion to realise the difficulties 

[ 40 ] 


IN BORROWED PLUMES 


which awaited the antagonists of the couple, 
and one learned scholar was alleged to have 
returned to the study of Terence with re- 
newed zest, feeling that in the Twin motif at 
least the ancient dramatist had laid his finger 
on a living issue. To impersonate one an- 
other had been their constant joy, and it was 
this, no doubt, as well as a feeling of chivalry, 
which had led Peter so readily so assume the 
part of the insulted Paul. But of late years 
the exchange of personality had been more 
difficult and very rarely attempted: in fact, 
since Paul had taken Orders the game had 
only once been played. It was agreed 
between them that it was only in deference 
to episcopal scruples and for the better avoid- 
ance of scandal that the Reverend Paul 
Ranby had borrowed his brother’s name (and 
some of his brother’s clothes) in order to 
attend the Grand National. This experi- 
ment, though it had been brilliantly success- 
ful, clearly threw no light on the immediate 
problem — How was Peter to dress for dinner.^^ 
But, as has been hinted, hope sprang 
eternal in the Ranby breast, and Peter had 
silenced alarm by saying to himself that some- 
thing was sure to turn up. He strolled to 
the window which looked over the terrace, 
[ 41 ] 


THORUGH THE SHADOWS 

and as he looked out of it a new light came 
into his eye. He had not been disappointed: 
something had turned up: hope had dawned 
on him — dressed indeed in unromantic guise, 
wearing in fact the gaiters of an Archdeacon, 
but hope for all that. He was in the mood 
for clutching at straws, and the Archdeacon, 
though anything but a man of straw, pro- 
vided at the moment the succour for a 
drowning man. 

He dismissed the footman who had come 
to unpack his suit-case, saying he would do it 
himself, but asked him to send him Wilson. 
On his arrival, the butler found him gazing 
into a heap of clothes with despair in his eye. 

“Oh, Wilson,” he said, “I find they’ve 
left out my dress waistcoat: I wonder if you 
could possibly see whether the Archdeacon 
has one to spare: do you know if he’s 
dressed yet.^” 

Wilson was not sure: not by any means 
so sure as his questioner, whose eagle eye had 
detected the Archdeacon strolling on the 
terrace: Wilson would see. 

“You might give him my compliments 
and say 1 should be awfully obfiged: and, 
Wilson, if he’s not there perhaps you might 

[ 42 ] 


IN BORROWED PLUMES 


just find one and bring it along: we needn’t 
trouble him.” 

Wilson departed on his errand and re- 
turned with the news that the Archdeacon 
had gone down, and also with the coveted 
garment. Dissembhng his emotion, Peter 
took it: his joy was short-lived. He had 
hoped for an ordinary high-cut waistcoat over 
which a normal white tie would have shed 
the glamour of respectability: a trifle Broad 
Church perhaps, but Paul’s reputation would 
get over that. (“Besides he owes me one,” 
thought Peter, “for standing up for him like 
that in the train.”) 

But fortune, which had aided him so far, 
was powerless or unwilling to cope with the 
advance in clerical dress: the waistcoat was 
of the kind described as “cassock” and 
necessitated that jam-pot collar which has so 
often flattered the Papacy with dreams of a 
Roman Cathoflc revival in England. How- 
ever, to a determined young man many 
things are possible: lay collars are reversible, 
and clerical collars vary as widely as the 
rehgious predilections of their wearers, so 
that when, after five minutes’ hard work. 
Lord Ranby surveyed himself in the glass he 
was not altogether dissatisfied with the result. 

[ 43 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

“Just a bit Anglo-Catholic perhaps,” he said 
to himself: “rather a Christian Socialist 
touch at the back: I’d no idea it was such a 
job dressing oneself backwards, but I haven’t 
time to put on a clean one. And after all, 
Paul ought to be jolly thankful I’m not 
dressing like a layman!” 

With which consoling reflection he pro- 
ceeded to the drawing-room. 

On entering, he found his hostess standing 
before the fireplace listening, with a some- 
what glassy eye, to the conversation of the 
Archdeacon: a rather heightened colour 
would have betrayed to any intimate friends 
of Lady Mary Summers that all was not 
going well with her, though by a blessed 
compensation it decidedly increased her like- 
ness to Mrs. Howard, whose part she had 
agreed to play. At the moment of Lord 
Ranby’s entry she was silently wishing that 
she had never heard that lady’s name, and 
cursing the facility of disposition which had 
led her to agree to the proposal. On the 
telephone the adventure had seemed feasible, 
and even amusing: her likeness to her 
cousin, Mrs. Howard, had been a mild 
family commonplace all their lives: it was 
not striking, but enough to deceive the in- 

[ 44 ] 


IN BORROWED PLUMES 


curious, and with the exception of Uncle 
Bob, notorious even among rnicles for his 
lack of perception, there was no one at Dray- 
worth who was at all likely to know her. A 
discreet maid — a judicious choice of clothes 
appropriate to the wife of a Norfolk squire — 
it had seemed that nothing more would be 
required. But since her arrival in the early 
afternoon things had not been going well: 
Dick’s hasty departure was a great blow: 
there were a thousand questions she would 
have liked to ask him, and she reflected — 
alas! too late — that in many points she was 
but ill equipped for the work before her. 
There was, it is true, no substantial room for 
doubt as to the number of her children: 
Dick had no doubt spoken airily of “two or 
three kids”; however, she was practically 
certain that Alice had only two: but she 
could not help reflecting, with justifiable 
irritation, that it was absurd that she should 
have been left in any doubt as to their sex. 
One was called Evelyn: there was no doubt 
of that, but it hardly settled the question, and 
in her haste she was disposed bitterly to 
blame Alice Howard, with whom her rela- 
tions had never been very cordial, for the 
unfortunate ambiguity. 

145 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

She could only hope for the best: after 
all, Mr. Walton was the only person likely 
to know, and in building on his ignorance of 
such domestic details she felt that she laid her 
foundations on a rock. So far all had gone 
well in her dealings with him. “Blulf, my 
dear girl, bluff for all you’re worth,” had been 
her cousin’s parting exhortation, and she had 
followed it out to the full. Uncle Bob had 
been, to tell the truth, a httle overwhelmed 
by the warmth of his greeting from his long- 
lost niece: Alice had never been quite so 
cordial before — “but still,” he reflected, 
“it’s five years since we met, and after all, 
marriage often opens people’s eyes to the 
merits of their own family.” The mild 
cynicism of this reflection gave him some 
pleasure, and when Lady Mary gave a little 
pressure of the hand as she said, “And now 
we must all try and keep you from ever going 
back to that horrid India!” her conquest 
was complete. Here at last was an ally: 
one to whom he could pour out the bitterness 
of his soul: her choice of epithet for the land 
of his unwilhng adoption pleased his sense 
for the mot juste, and as Lady Mary turned 
to meet Professor Lapski she could feel with 

[ 46 ] 


IN BORROWED PLUMES 


justice that she had emerged with credit from 
the first round. 

Miss Mountford, too — that had been an 
agreeable surprise. It may have been a con- 
stitutional distrust of dignitaries and their 
daughters: it may have been that instinctive 
aversion to schoolmasters and their belong- 
ings which is so marked a characteristic of 
the English upper classes — ^but whatever was 
the reason, Lady Mary had settled it in her 
own mind that Miss Montford would be a 
frump. And a frump she palpably was not. 
She had had time this afternoon to discover 
that she played a good game of tennis, and 
had plenty to say for herself: the evening 
revealed that she also knew how to dress. 
Her gown of chiffon velvet confessed the 
hand of a master and its shade of apricot 
admirably suited her dark colouring. 

“She’ll do,” said Lady Mary to herself; 
‘ ‘I only wish I could feel as certain about her 
father!” 

But Lapski — ^here was a problem for 
which she was unprepared, and her feeling of 
ignorance passed rapidly into one of con- 
siderable resentment against Dick. It wasn’t 
playing the game to grudge one’s partner any 
possible information which might be useful, 
[ 47 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

and Dick had certainly been secretive about 
Lapski. On the telephone he had men- 
tioned “a great thought-reading swell” who 
was coming, and had added, “I’ve got a lot 
to tell you about him,” but the promised 
information had not been forthcoming this 
afternoon. Her cousin had mentioned him, it 
is true, but only to give the time of his arrival, 
and when she asked for further details he had 
only said airily, “Oh, he’ll be all right: you 
turn him on to talk spiritualism with Mrs. 
Branson: that’ll keep both of them happy,” 
and had turned the conversation to other 
themes. There had been too httle time, and 
too much to say, for her to press the point, 
but as she gazed now into his melancholy 
countenance, clean shaven (for the sacrifice 
had been made), framed in thick, smooth, 
black hair and surmounted by round gold 
spectacles, she felt the gaps in her intelli- 
gence-system and blamed Dick bitterly for 
the poor quality of his staff-work. 

Her anger would have been lessened could 
she have overheard a conversation which had 
taken place before Captain England had set 
forth on his travels. 

“Look here, Dick,” he had said, “I’ll take 
this job on if you’re really bent on it. I think 

[ 48 ] 


IN BORROWED PLUMES 

it’s a silly business and bound to end in tears 
and all that, but Fll do it — only on one con- 
dition. I’m not going to have you give me 
away to any one, mind you, not to any one, 
I’ve met Lady Mary once or twice and I’m 
not going to have her thinking what a fool I 
look as this infernal professor of yours. It’s 
bad enough having to play the game at all, 
but, if I do, it’s on my own terms and that’s 
flat.” 

Sir Richard had been surprised at his 
friend’s warmth, but he knew him too well to 
argue and accepted the conditions without 
demur. It was a bit rough on Lady Mary 
perhaps: they might have worked well to- 
gether: but, after all, things would very 
likely go better if Lapski’s identity remained 
a complete secret, so he yielded with a good 
grace, and, though his heart smote him a Httle 
for the deception of his trusty ally, he con- 
soled himself by thinking that it would 
probably be easier for her in the end not to 
have a third secret to conceal. 

Professor Lapski’s imperfect command of 
the English language had made it difficult to 
gain a clear impression of him: Lady Mary 
hoped that by putting him next to herself at 
dinner she would be able to extract some- 
[ 49 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

thing from him — and then after dinner he 
could at any rate talk to Mrs. Branson, for 
whose entertainment she knew that Dick was 
specially anxious to provide. Lapski was 
now listening with impenetrable demeanour 
to the Hvely conversation of Miss Montford, 
who appeared to be trying to explain to him 
the elements of the game of cricket. 

And then there was this unexpected ap- 
pearance of Paul Ranby. The trusty Wilson 
had conveyed to her the news that it was the 
younger twin who had arrived. Like him, 
she had expected his brother, but, now that 
she came to think it over, she couldn’t be 
sure that Dick had said anything more than 
“one of the Ranby twins.” She knew 
neither of them and it didn’t much matter, 
but her nerves were a little on edge and a 
surprise, however trifling, was bad for them. 
She had arranged for Lord Ranby to take in 
Miss Branson, and her acquaintance with 
Americans had taught her that a young peer 
is a useful asset in their entertainment. He 
may be regarded with the veneration due to 
an Old Master, or with the amusement 
caused by one of George Morrow’s Links 
with the Past, but in either case he has a 
[ 50 ] 


IN BORROWED PLUMES 


quality which a younger son (especially when 
he is a parson) can hardly hope to equal. 

It was, then, to a slightly perturbed hostess 
that Peter presented himself: his ingenuous 
countenance disarmed criticism, as it had 
so often (and so unreasonably) done before: 
his smile propitiated her. 

‘ ‘I’m so glad to meet you, Mr. Ranby,” 
she said, ‘ ‘I’ve heard so much about you and 
your brother from Dick. It’s too bad that 
he isn’t here to receive you. I’m not sure if 
you know Mr. Ranby, ArchdeaconP” 

“I have not had the pleasure of meeting 
Mr. Ranby before,” said the Archdeacon; 
“let me see, you were at Winchester, I 
think? Don’t I remember your making a 
lot of runs against us one year at Eton.^” 
“Ah no, that was my brother,” answered 
Peter, surrendering with a sigh the possession 
of his most cherished century. (‘ ‘That’s one 
more good tm*n done to Paul,” he thought to 
himself, with a shghtly confused sense of 
honesty; “I’ll jolly well make him pay me 
back some day!”) 

“Amd where are you working now?” 
went on the Archdeacon. “Oh, in the Pot- 
teries! Then you’ll know my old friend 
Canon Dawkins. He’s a great figure there, 
[ 51 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


I’m told: I never can help laughing when I 
think of old Dawkins: quite a character, 
isn’t he?” 

Peter assented to the definition with a 
somewhat wan smile: the eccentricities of the 
Canon had not penetrated to his knowledge, 
nor could he form any conjecture as to their 
nature. 

“Has he been doing anything out of the 
way lately?” inquired the Archdeacon. 

“No — no, not very lately,” answered Peter 
weakly. Then, as a sudden inspiration came 
to him, “I wonder what was the last thing 
that you heard?” 

The Archdeacon was chuckling to himself. 
“Oh, I haven’t heard anything since the 
time the Bishop came to his church — ^for the 
Confirmation, you remember — and found old 
Dawkins had taught all the Sunday School 
girls to skip round the chmchyard singing: 

Why skip ye so, ye little hills. 

Why skip, why skip, why skip? 

’Tis ’cause we are so glad to see 
His Grace the Lord Biship! 

And aU the boys, too — only they were hop- 
ping, and said Bishop instead. Ajid you 
won’t have forgotten what the Bishop said?” 

[ 52 ] 


IN BORROWED PLUMES 


But Mr. Ranby’s recollection of the Epis- 
copal repartee was not destined to be put to 
the test, for at the moment the door opened 
and Mrs. Branson, followed by her daughter, 
sailed into the room. 

The word “saihng,” when applied to 
human beings, has been unjustly appropri- 
ated to connote a smoothness of motion which 
the landsman often fails to connect with his 
experience of the sea . Mrs . Branson’s method 
of approach was of that jerky and spasmodic 
order which suggested a small boat, inade- 
quately steered, under a heavy spread of sail. 
The saQ, in this case, if the metaphor is to 
be prolonged, was supphed by her costume, 
which was elaborate and expansive. The 
large pattern of her blue and gold brocade 
did full justice to her ample proportions: a 
dog collar of pearls bore up her massive 
chin: sapphires lent a touch of Apocalyptic 
splendour: one felt instinctively that the 
pigs of Chicago could not feel that they had 
died in vain. 

For, indeed, it was from Chicago that 
Mrs. Branson came, and in her determina- 
tion and initiative she did not disgrace the 
city of her origin. She had given convincing 
proof of her powers in the way in which she 
[ 53 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

had annexed the hand and guided the career 
of Mr. Branson, a handsome though some- 
what indolent member of a Virginian family. 
She had early, during a visit to the South, 
marked him as the man on whom to bestow 
herself, and the not inconsiderable fortune 
which her father had left her. Some slight 
recalcitrance on his part had led to a strategic 
retreat on hers to the parental fastnesses of 
Chicago: her friends (in terms destined to 
reach the ear and touch the heart of Mr. 
Branson) declared that “Pauline went up 
North and pined.” The manoeuvre had its 
due effect, and there was no reason to be- 
heve that Mr. Branson regretted the choice 
which made him the prosperous director of 
a Chicago business house. On the other 
hand, it is possible that for a man of his 
temperament the pace was a little too fast, 
and it was with characteristic equanimity 
that he had, a few years ago, faced the ne- 
cessity to retire from Chicago, and, indeed 
from this world altogether, to enjoy a rest 
which neither the necessities of his business 
nor the temperament of his wife had al- 
lowed him for his last twenty years. 

Mrs. Branson mourned for him sincerely; 
the good looks of her daughter reminded her 

[ 54 ] 


IN BORROWED PLUMES 

continually of the husband she had lost, and 
she had devoted a considerable portion of her 
widowhood to efforts, hitherto vain, to arouse 
Mr. Branson to reopen communications with 
her from the other world. His friends found 
the failure easy to account for, but they were 
wise enough to keep their theories to them- 
selves. Since his death Mrs. Branson, as has 
been hinted, had thrown herself warmly into 
the Prohibition movement, which had at 
least the merits of distracting her thoughts 
from her loss, for it was impossible to con- 
ceive a cause with which her easy-going 
husband would have had less sympathy. 

For the rest she was a personage who in- 
spired respect not unmingled with alarm, and 
Richard Atherton in an irreverent mood had 
described her as one of those ladies whom 
St. Paul must have had in mind when he 
spoke of “widows that are widows indeed.” 

Of her daughter, Diana, it will be enough 
for the moment to say that she took after her 
father in appearance. Lady Mary looked 
her over as she entered the room with that 
rapidly appraising eye which young ladies 
reserve for those of their own sex in whom 
their favourite cousins have shown signs of 
interest, and Diana stood the test well. 

[ 55 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

“She’s even prettier than she looked this 
afternoon,” Lady Mary thought to herself. 
“Dick isn’t quite such a fool as I thought: 
but there’ll be heavy weather with Mrs. B., 
or I’m much mistaken!” 

So thinking, she advanced to meet Mrs. 
Branson, whose last tack had brought her 
within striking distance: Mr. Walton and 
Mr. Banby were duly presented: Wilson 
threw open the door and the company went 
in to dinner. 


[56] 


CHAPTER IV 


CURAE EDACES 

O wad some pow’r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see usi 

Burns. 


HE dinner table was a round one, 
and a rapid glance satisfied Lady 
Mary that she had made her dis- 
positions as wisely as circum- 
stances admitted. Mrs. Branson 
was advantageously placed be- 
tween the Archdeacon and Mr. Walton, who 
had taken her in: Ranby had Miss Montford 
on his right and Miss Branson on his left: 
she herself was free to divide her attentions 
between her partner the Archdeacon and the 
inscrutable Lapski. All that could be done 
was to hope for the best. 

Her anxious eye rested with approval on 
Diana Branson, whose dress of jade green 
was in pleasing contrast to her mother’s 
costume and showed her undeniable beauty 
to full advantage. “Paris, Molyneux,” she 



THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

said to herself, realising with satisfaction that 
Miss Branson had found time in the French 
capital for other interests besides the culture 
which (according to her mother’s account) 
she had insatiably “absorbed.” Her opinion 
of Dick’s judgment rose a little higher still. 

The iBrst voice that broke the silence was 
that of Mrs. Branson. “Well, I do call it 
real mean of Sir Richard to run off and leave 
us our first night, but I suppose that politics 
is not what you might call a restful occupa- 
tion, and I like to see a young man take right 
hold of his life’s work. Are you a politician, 
Mr. Walton?” 

Mr. Walton’s denial of any exclusive po- 
litical information led to so violent an attack 
on the mugwump position that he felt bound 
in self-defence to mention that he had lived 
much of his life abroad — “in India,” he 
added, feeling that the horrid truth (or false- 
hood) was bound to come out sooner or later 
and that he might as well make a virtue of 
candour. 

“India? Well, that is real interesting: 
there are just thousands of questions about 
India that I feel like asking.” 

Mr. Walton groaned inwardly and swal- 
lowed down his sherry. 

[ 58 ] 


C U R A E 


E D A C E S 


“Now about the position of women. I 
can’t tell you how much I want to know what 
it feels like for a white woman out there. 
You are a married man, aren’t you.^ Yes, I 
might have known that by yom* looking so 
gentle” (Mr. Walton blushed): “now I’d 
like to have you tell me just how Mrs. Wal- 
ton liked that kind of life.” 

Her companion breathed again: here at 
least was a question which could be answered, 
if not with accuracy, at any rate with some 
approach to verisimilitude. 

“I am afraid,” he said, speaking slowly, 
‘ ‘I am afraid that I must confess that she did 
not like it at all. It is a subject which we 
never mention. I can’t remember — no, I 
really can’t remember that for the last ten 
years my wife has so much as mentioned the 
name of India. I never speak of it to her,” 
he went on, warming to his subject, and feel- 
ing that he was on sure ground for once, 
‘ ‘and she never speaks of it to me. I respect 
her silence: I know all that it meant to her.” 

Mrs. Branson gave a sympathetic murmur. 
“Well, I expect that’s just too true. Those 
native nurses, now, they must be enough to 
wear down any mother: I know what I’ve 
had to suffer from hired girls at home and 
[ 59 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


over here, and they are white anyway. I 
expect you found them something terrible?” 

Mr. Walton was eating fish: a bone gave 
him a moment’s pretext for delay: he used it 
to the full and thought very fast. He saw 
before him a vista of cross-examination on 
the difficulties of bringing up children in 
India which he was ill prepared to face: he 
decided to make a clean cut. Brutus had 
sacrificed his son: Mr. Walton was prepared 
to raise him one, and to cut off at a blow the 
promising career of two sons; one at Oxford 
and another at Sandhurst. 

“Ah no,” he said in a voice choked with 
emotion (though possibly not with the emo- 
tion which he intended to convey), “Ah no, 
it was not that: I am sorry to say that we 
have no children: it has been our great sor- 
row.” 

He cast, as he spoke, a mute glance of 
appeal at his hostess: she had not followed 
the conversation, but had heard enough to 
reahse that her titular uncle was in deep 
waters and came gallantly to the rescue. 

“Mrs. Branson,” she said, “the Arch- 
deacon was just telling me of a most interest- 
ing scheme of his for dealing with dilapida- 
[ 60 ] 


C U R A E 


E D A C E S 


tions: I am sure that you would like to hear 
some of the details he was giving me.” 

The ruse was successful: the Archdeacon 
fell with avidity upon his new prey, and Mr. 
Walton seized the opportunity to ask Miss 
Montford her opinion on English decadence 
in lawn tennis. 

Lady Mary felt at liberty to devote herself 
to her other neighbour: she was determined 
to make some effort to penetrate the mystery 
that surrounded him. 

“Do you know this part of England, 
Professor?” she began: “I always think 
Shropshire in September is one of the nicest 
things we have to show.” 

‘ ‘No, madam,” replied the Professor sadly, 
‘ ‘it is now the first time that I come here: it 
is very lovely, but it is strange.” 

“I suppose you have nothing quite like 
this in your own country?” suggested Lady 
Mary tentatively, thinking that she saw an 
opening. 

The Professor sighed deeply. “Madam,” 
he said, “for me, I have now no country.” 

Lady Mary felt baffled: she tried hur- 
riedly to remember any country which could 
be thought to have recently disappeared, 
but her knowledge of post-war geography 
[ 61 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


failed her. She tried another tack. “I 
wonder if you could explain to me,” she said, 
“just how this Silesian difficulty arose? it is 
all so confusing to us over here.” 

She was not prepared for the result of her 
question. 

“Ah,” cried the Professor, “what are the 
Poles to me? Speak of them not, speak not 
to me of Czecho-Slovaks, Ruthenians, Yugo- 
slavs! You shall not talk to me of Lithuan- 
ians nor of Croats! What am I that I 
should hear that all is not well in Transyl- 
vania? I cannot bear it.” 

He ended with a groan and toyed absently 
with his bread, while his eyes glared wildly 
round the table. Lady Mary was genuinely 
alarmed: it seemed useless to disclaim the 
intention with which he apparently credited 
her of instructing him in the pohtics of 
Eastern Europe: she could only endeavour 
to soothe him. 

“You must forgive me,” she said gently, 
“I had no wish to touch on any painful 
subject.” 

The Professor was all apologies on the 
instant. 

“Ah no, gracious lady,” he said, “but it 
is you that must forgive! I teach myself this 
[62] 


C U R A E 


E D A C E S 


long time to forget the little things of this 
earth: I dwell no more in these your coun- 
tries. I try to live in the world of thought. 
Oh, but it is hard, it is hard! And I try 
all the time to forget — that I may he free 
to soar (how do you say it.^) to the things 
of the spirit.” 

The poor Professor’s emotion was so un- 
mistakably genuine that Lady Mary felt more 
contrite than ever. 

“Yes, indeed I see,” she said, “those 
other things are so much more real to you: 
and the things you see must often seem quite 
unreal and untrue.” 

Professor Lapski made no answer: his 
eyes shone behind his large spectacles with a 
strange light: he gazed round the table with 
an intent look: he seemed rapt into that 
other world of thought of which he had 
spoken. 

“I see,” he said at last in a low voice, “I 
see strange things: I know not what they 
mean.” 

“What sort of things. Professor.^” asked 
Lady Mary, genuinely impressed and a little 
alarmed. 

“It may be nothing,” answered Professor 
Lapski: “I do wrong to speak: this is not 

[ 63 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

the time: it is the time of pleasure, of food, 
of drink, not the time of thought. And yet 
I cannot help to see when the moment comes. 
But I meant not to speak of it. Forgive me, 
gracious lady.” 

‘ ‘But do tell me,” urged his hostess, whose 
curiosity was rapidly gaining the upper hand. 
“What did you think you saw?” 

“It was but now,” said the Professor 
heavily, “as you looked upon me with so 
kind thought, I looked upon you and lo, in 
a moment all was gone and you were not 
there!” 

“Not there?” gasped Lady Mary, holding 
tight to the arm of her chair. 

“No, it was not you — it was not Mrs. 
Howard that sat there, but another lady — 
oh, not so beautiful (you wiU forgive), an 
older lady, Hke you, yes, but not you.” 

The Professor drank a httle champagne: 
the strain of his vision had evidently told 
upon his nerves. Lady Mary had turned a 
little pale: her Professor was proving more 
interesting than she had expected and rather 
clearer-sighted than she could have wished. 
“It must be nonsense,” she told herself; 
“he can’t possibly see through me like that:” 

[ 64 ] 


C U R A E 


E D A C E S 


her self-possession gradually returned and 
she thought of a new test. 

“My dear Professor,” she said, smiling 
though a little shakily, “I do hope that 
doesn’t mean I’m going to vanish away! It 
doesn’t mean anything dreadful, does it? 
And did you see anything else just now when 
the vision came to you?” 

The Professor was silent: he turned his 
gaze round the table again and the same dull 
light shone in his eyes once more: they 
turned from one guest to another and settled 
at last on the unconscious Mr. Walton. 

‘ ‘Surely you don’t see Mr. Walton vanish- 
ing away?” asked Lady Mary airily, though 
with a quahn at her heart. 

The Professor was still silent: he sniffed 
gently two or three times. “A strange smell 
is in my nostrils,” he said dreamily, “it is 
not a smell of flowers, no, nor yet of beast: it 
is a bitter smell: it is not a smeU that I knew 
as a child in my far home: it is a smeU of 
this land of yours: a smell of London.” 

He sniffed again interrogatively, and a 
pleasant smile hghted up his gloomy face. 

“Ah gracious lady, but you will laugh at 
me and my dreams! it cannot be. I am tired, 
and do wrong to speak of such things to you.” 

[ 65 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

“Oh do tell me what it is!” cried Lady 
Mary, who had been hanging on his words. 
“What is this English smell, this London 
smell?” 

“You will forgive me, madam,” said 
Lapski with a deprecating smile: “I laugh 
at myself, but what I felt was like the smell 
of beer!” 

The Professor ended with a low laugh. 
Lady Mary endeavoured to laugh too, but 
her throat was a httle dry. Her brain was 
going round: could it really be that her 
neighbour had this mysterious power? it 
was absurd! but how else to account for it? 
she looked at him vdth redoubled interest, 
but the strange man had turned his head 
away and was listening to the conversation 
across the table. 

And, indeed, it was high time that the 
hostess also should attend to her other guests, 
whom she had forgotten in her absorption 
with Lapski. The Archdeacon’s conversa- 
tion, like all conversations in which Mrs. 
Branson was engaged, had rapidly drifted 
in the direction of drink. The Archdeacon 
had dilated on the temperance experiments 
which had recently been tried in his diocese, 
and had appealed to Ranby for confirmation 
[ 66 ] 


c U R A E 


E D A C E S 


from his experience in the Potteries. Ranby 
had kept up his end with some difficulty, 
and finding himself hard pressed had shame- 
lessly endeavoured to drag Mr. Walton into 
the conversation. 

“You ought really to ask Mr. Walton,” 
he said, ‘ ‘we had a most interesting conversa- 
tion in the train about drunkenness in India, 
and I have no doubt he can tell you a lot 
about temperance work there.” 

The worthy brewer was by this time deep 
in a discussion of Test Match tactics with 
Miss Montford, and was almost visibly un- 
wilhng to be disturbed, but a direct challenge 
from the Archdeacon left him without re- 
source. 

“Oh yes,” he said testily, “they drink 
like fishes: horrible sight, horrible sight,” 
and he made as though he would return to 
his discussion with his neighbour. 

But the Archdeacon was not to be denied, 
and his daughter knew him too well to con- 
nive at his disappointment. 

‘ ‘That is really most interesting, painfully 
interesting,” he said. “I had always fancied 
that in hot climates temperance was more 
common: and what is the beverage that pro- 
duces these unfortunate results?” 

[ 67 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

Mr. Walton sipped his champagne. ‘ ‘Ghi! ” 
he said defiantly. 

Ranby, despite his sympathy, could not 
refrain from saying, ‘ ‘But I thought, sir, you 
told me it was Bang they chiefly drank P” 

‘ ‘They are two names for the same thing,” 
said Mr. Walton, his face flushed with 
anger: “Ghi-Bang, Bang-Ghi — ^you don’t 
suppose that a man lives half his life in India 
without knowing the native names! It’s a 
land of synonyms, sir! Why, I daresay 
there are twenty names for the drink, and 
some of them names that I couldn’t repeat in 
a company lil^e this!” 

Miss Montford gave a little cry, whether 
of pleasure or alarm, and Mr. Walton tossed 
off the rest of his glass of champagne and 
glared defiantly at the Archdeacon. 

“Now I call that real interesting,” said 
Mrs. Branson. “I had always fancied that 
Ghi was melted butter and I never should 
have dreamt it could be that stimulating: 
but no doubt they’d have a different breed of 
cows.” 

“Yes, I agree with Mrs. Branson,” went 
on the Archdeacon, ‘ ‘I too had always under- 
stood that Ghi was a kind of melted butter: 
don’t you remember it being mentioned in 
[ 68 ] 


CURA E EDACES 

one of those children’s books you used to 
have, my dearP” he added to his daughter. 

‘ ‘Yes, papa, I think I do,” said the dutiful 
young lady. 

Mr. Walton was being pressed on all 
sides, and was cursing the momentary lapse 
of memory which had used up the only other 
Oriental word which he could at the moment 
remember, when help came to him from an 
unexpected quarter. 

“The Cossacks,” said the deep voice of 
Professor Lapski, “they drink the milk of 
the mare, and they are not sober, no? 
Butter he comes from milk; the milk of the 
mare, the milk of the cow, it is all one. It is 
as the gentleman has said. Have I not seen 
the Ghi factories in Turkestan, and the very 
dromedaries to drink of it and roll in the 
bazaar P” 

Circumstantial testimony of this kind 
could not be disputed: harmony was re- 
stored: Mr. Walton cast a grateful glance 
at the Professor, but that gentleman had 
relapsed into his own meditations and failed 
(it is to be hoped) to hear the irreverent 
developments of the idea of a drunken drome- 
dary with which Lord Ranby was amusing 
Miss Branson. 


[691 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

Archdeacon Montford was less easily satis- 
fied: he looked for a moment as though 
he would like to cross-question the Professor, 
but his attention was recalled by Mrs. Bran- 
son, who desired to transfer the subject from 
the particular to the general. 

“I see in that anecdote,” she said, “a 
regular mine of argument for the cause 
of temperance. When a four-footed brute 
proves unable to resist the insidious effects 
of melted butter, it is demonstrably true that 
man is little likely to fare better before the 
fermented temptations of the saloon. The 
amount of labour wasted annually in the pro- 
duction of beer alone in these islands would 
be enough to drain St. George’s Channel and 
settle the Irish question once for all. And 
when I think,” she added, “that there exist 
in this country men of high social position 
who positively batten on the degradation of 
their fellow men — well, I have feelings of 
horror and disgust which I cannot easily 
express. When I think of those poor deluded 
dromedaries ” her voice faltered. 

As her eye ranged round the table it 
challenged Mr. Walton and Professor Lap- 
ski, who were the only gentlemen who had 
been drinking wine, for the unfortunate 

[70] 


C U R A E 


E D A C E S 


Ranby was still the victim of his rash utter- 
ance in the train. The Professor was un- 
moved, but Mr. Walton, whose temper was 
still shghtly ruffled by his nEO'row escape, 
was evidently meditating a rejoinder. Lady 
Mary felt that discretion enjoined an early 
retreat, and was successful in catching Mrs. 
Branson’s eye as it played with menacing 
light upon the impassive Professor. The 
ladies retired to the drawing-room, and one 
at least of the company wiped the beads of 
perspiration from his brow. 


[711 


CHAPTER V 


CHESTNUTS AND WINE 
Old Eton places, old Eton faces. — Ainger. 

HE departure of Mrs. Branson from 
the dining-room left a feeling of 
calm in the air. Mr. Walton 
breathed again: he had come very 
near to losing his temper with a 
lady, and the idea was shocking to 
his old-fashioned courtesy: besides, he real- 
ised that in his anxious position he needed to 
have all his wits about him. He gave a sigh 
of relief as he mopped his brow and settled 
again into his chair, but a glance round the 
table reawakened his alarms in a lively form. 
He had noticed Lapski’s eye resting on him 
once or twice with a penetrating gaze, the 
sort of look which causes even an innocent 
man to brush anxiously at his face to remove 
a possible speck of dirt, and Mr. Walton, as 
we know, was far from being an innocent 
man. 

“Confound the fellow,” he thought to 

[ 72 ] 



CHESTNUTS AND WINE 

himself, “he looks at me as if he was sure 
I’d got something to conceal: but he can’t 
possibly know anything.” His gaze next 
rested on Ranby and he found no consolation 
there. “He seems a nice young fellow,” he 
thought, “but I wish I could be quite sure 
what I told him in the train. I didn’t half 
like the way he caught me up just now about 
that Bang business. However, we must hope 
for the best, and thank heaven he’s taking on 
the Archdeacon for a bit!” 

He did not feel inclined for a tete-a-tete 
with the Professor and drew up his chair to 
listen to the conversation of the other two. 

Ranby, who had motives of his own for 
propitiating the Archdeacon, was conscious 
that he had not so far made a very favourable 
impression: he was anxious to improve it. 

“I suppose, sir,” he began, “you find 
your present work a great change after Eton.^ 
it must be a very different kind of life! ” 

The Archdeacon unbent. “Yes, indeed,” 
he answered, “it is different, very different! 
Our warm-hearted Lancashire folk are won- 
derful people, but one often finds oneself 
sighing for a Division of Eton boys again, 
with their keen eager young faces. They 
are wonderfully receptive, wonderfully recep- 
[ 73 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

tive! No doubt you find work among lads 
the most repaying in your parish?” 

But Peter was not to be drawn into the 
Potteries without a struggle. ‘ ‘I can quite 
understand what you say,” he replied. “I 
have often heard Dick say how much he 
enjoyed being ‘up to you’ in old days.” 

This indeed was true, though not entirely 
for the reasons which Archdeacon Montford 
supposed. 

“I forget what was your subject?” Peter 
went on. 

“Science,” said the Archdeacon, “science! 
a wonderful subject for the growing mind! 
There is something in its exact methods 
which makes an appeal even to the most 
thoughtless boy. Often and often they have 
begged me to repeat some experiment that 
they might study it more closely: it was 
inspiring, most inspiring.” 

Professor Lapski, who was listening with 
deep interest, could not help remembering 
that at Eton it had been the almost consist- 
ent failure of the Archdeacon’s experiments 
which had constituted the chief attraction to 
his pupils, but his face betrayed no sign of 
his memories. 

“Yes, I remember the science hours at 
[ 74 ] 


CHESTNUTS AND WINE 


Winchester,” said Ranby. “I always said 
there was nothing Hke Sti — like science,” he 
corrected himself. 

‘ ‘And then I taught a good deal of geog- 
raphy,” went on Archdeacon Montford. 
“The relations of science and geography are 
still, I fear, very imperfectly understood. 
There is far too much of that insistence on 
the mere memorising of names and places, 
instead of a reasoned account of the effect of 
climatic conditions on the life and work of 
the people. For instance, Mr. Walton,” he 
went on, turning to the brewer, “I don’t 
think I heard you mention the name of your 
district in India 

Mr. Walton had been allowing his 
thoughts to wander and was quite unpre- 
pared for so sudden an attack: he choked 
over his port, which caused his face to turn a 
deep red; “Masulipatam!” he spluttered, 
giving the word almost the effect of an im- 
precation. 

“Ah, indeed,” said the Archdeacon, “now 
it may seem presumptuous of me, but I dare- 
say I could tell you some facts about the 
precise causes of the rainfall and the baro- 
metric conditions which would be a surprise 
to you with all your experience on the spot. 

[ 75 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


The practical man, you know, has always 
something to learn from the man of science, 
however much you may laugh at us — ^ha, hal 

Mr. Walton thought it highly probable 
that the Archdeacon’s revelations would 
prove very strange to him. He was occupied 
at the moment in considering how and when 
he had heard the name Masulipatam, and 
where on earth it could be. His face 
exhibited such signs of perturbation that the 
chivalrous Ranby, remembering his agitation 
in the train, decided to spare him and to 
throw himself into the breach once more. 

‘ ‘But to go back to what we were speaking 
of. Archdeacon,” he resumed, “I suppose 
you find your working-class congregation 
very different from those in the Chapel at 
Eton?” 

The Archdeacon gave a sigh of happy 
recollection — “Indeed yes,” he said, “it is 
a great change. I have none but the happiest 
memories of Eton Chapel, none but the 
happiest memories.” 

Captain England found it difficult to 
repress the ghost of a smile: he had a 
memory too in which the Archdeacon had a 
share: it was a happy memory, but he 
doubted very much whether it was among 
[ 76 ] 


CHESTNUTS AND WINE 


those which the Archdeacon at the moment 
recalled with such satisfaction. It was the 
memory of a hot Sunday afternoon: a boy 
had fainted: Mr. Montford, full of zeal, had 
come to the rescue and had lifted him from 
his place: he was bearing him triumphantly 
down the aisle, when his foot slipped and he 
fell with a crash which effectually roused his 
unconscious burden. The picture of dignity 
in distress was deeply graven on the memories 
of the irreverent youths who had been 
fortunate enough to witness it. England re- 
pressed his smile and lent over to listen again. 

‘ T daresay you were never in Eton Chapel, 
Mr. Ranby?” the Archdeacon was saying 

“Yes, sir, I was there once,” said Peter. 
‘ T came over for the match — ^that is, to see 
my brother play, of course,” he added with a 
twinge of recollection. “I remember think- 
ing it seemed very big after Winchester, but 
I hope you won’t mind my saying I thought 
your ventilation rather poor. Of course it 
was a very hot time of year!” 

The Archdeacon did not altogether relish 
the criticism. “Do you know Eton Chapel, 
Mr. Walton.^” he asked. “Ah no, I suppose 
your long absence from home has not given 
you the chance.” 


[ 77 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


The brewer gratefully accepted the re- 
prieve. 

“And you, Professor, I wonder if you 
have ever visited Eton? You should make 
a point of doing so if you get the chance!” 

The Professor fixed his gloomy eyes upon 
his questioner. 

“I see Eton, yes,” he answered; “once 
it is long ago. It was in the time of heat and 
the Chapel she was warm, yes! There 
was a httle boy, oh, quite small, and he had 
what you call a faint, is it not so.^ And a 
professor he come to help him and to carry 
him out. And, as he go, he fell! And the 
other little boys to laugh! it was very droll,” 
he ended, with a soundless chuckle. 

The Archdeacon had got very red: it had 
been a painful moment, and it was the worst 
of luck that this foreigner should have 
witnessed the debacle. He clearly had no sus- 
picion of his own connection with the scene, 
but the incident did not encourage the Arch- 
deacon to persevere in his well-meant efforts 
to bring him into the conversation. He 
decided to give it a new turn. 

‘ ‘Canon Dawkins was telfing me the other 
day,” he went on, turning to Ranby, “of the 
great missionary campaign which has just 
[ 78 ] 


CHESTNUTS AND WINE 

been going on in the Potteries: I should 
like to hear what you thought of it: I imder- 
stand that Dawkins himself took a very lead- 
ing part, though naturally he is too modest 
to say so himself. I wonder if you heard 
any of his addresses.^” 

Ranby hesitated for a moment: he was 
beginning heartily to dislike the excellent 
Canon Dawkins, but he did not dare to dis- 
own him altogether. 

“Yes, they were quite wonderful,” he 
said, and then, feeling that more was required 
of him, he decided to take a risk. “It’s 
extraordinary that at his age he can still be 
so vigorous.” 

‘ ‘He is an exact contemporary of my own,” 
said the Archdeacon coldly, “and I cannot 
agree that that is a great age.” 

Peter swore beneath his breath. “Dear 
me!” he said aloud, “I should have thought 
you were at least ten years his junior.” 

The Archdeacon was visibly pleased. 
“Ah well,” he answered, “poor old Dawkins 
has never taken any care of his health, and he 
certainly is getting a httle bald,” he added, 
passing his hand over his own thick head of 
hair. 

The dangerous moment had passed, but it 
[ 79 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

had been too acute to be pleasant, and Ranby 
felt no time must be lost. “I’ve done old 
Walton one good tm*n,” he said to himself, 
‘ ‘and I don’t see why I should sacrifice my- 
self for ever.” 

He went on aloud. “But I’ve no doubt 
Mr. Walton can tell us at first hand a great 
deal about missionary work: I remember 
Canon Dawkins pointed to India as quite the 
most interesting field at the present moment.” 
He leant back in his chair and surveyed with 
mischievous enjoyment the trouble he had 
caused: “after all,” he thought, “he can’t 
expect never to have to talk about India, and 
I’m sure the old Potteries deserve a bit of a 
rest!” 

Mr. Walton was fairly in for it: he set his 
teeth and did his best. Hazy recollections 
of missionary meetings stood him in good 
stead, and luckily for him the Archdeacon 
(no doubt as a result of his training as a 
schoolmaister) was more anxious to impart 
information than to extract it. 

But, when all is said, it was a very bad 
quarter of an hour through which the hapless 
brewer passed: he employed any momentary 
respite that he obtained in vowing vengeance 
against his unconscious nephew, and it was 
[ 80 ] 


CHESTNUTS AND WINE 


a visibly shaken man who, at the earliest 
possible moment, suggested that it was time 
to rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room. 


[ 81 ] 


CHAPTER VI 


MOTHER AND SONS 
Mary had a little lamb . — Old Ballad. 

ND now, Mrs. Howard,” said Mrs. 
Branson, settling herself in a large 
armchair which she completely 
filled, “while those two young 
things amuse themselves, you and 
I can have a real cosy talk. I 
can’t tell you how I want to hear you de- 
scribe to me all your little family. I’m what 
they call a good American, and we have 
plenty of things in that old country which 
take a lot of beating — but there’s something 
intimate about the English home life which 
we never seem rightly to get a hold of. And 
so I just want you to tell me all about your 
httle chicks: I’ve heard about them from your 
brother a bit, but then a man never seems 
to know just those little things which a moth- 
er wants to hear. So you just start in right 
away! and don’t you be afraid of tiring me. 

[ 82 ;] 




MOTHER 


AND 


SONS 


You may think Fm one of those platform 
women who don’t understand: but you just 
try me! You’ll find I’m that full of senti- 
ment you’d hardly credit. My dear husband 
often used to speak of it: ‘Pauline’ (he’s said 
to me a hundred times if he’s said it once) 
‘Pauline, I just don’t know how you manage 
it: one time you seem as keen on business as 
if you’d been brought up in Wall Street, and 
the next moment you’re that soft and simple 
you might have spent all your days in Phila- 
delphia.’ So you just start right in and tell 
me all about them. How old are they, 
anyway 

Lady Mary had not been expecting so 
rapid and direct an attack: the events of the 
last hour or two had caused her to think 
of Mrs. Branson rather as an elemental force 
than as a human being, and it was a moment 
or two before she could realise (what was 
certainly the truth) that the yards of blue 
brocade before her enveloped a maternal 
heart, and that the neck so firmly embraced 
by the dog collar of pearls could unbend in 
any conceivable nursery. The torrential ex- 
hortation to which she had listened gave her 
a moment to collect her thoughts and she 
answered without hesitation. 

[ 83 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

“How sweet of you, Mrs. Branson! I 
shall be delighted to talk nursery with you. 
Evelyn is three and the baby just over 
twelve months.” 

“That’s good,” said Mrs. Branson; 
“weight at birth?” 

Her hostess jumped a httle at the rapid 
question, but on the principle that you may 
as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, 
answered rapidly, “eleven pounds.” 

“My!” said Mrs. Branson, gazing at Lady 
Mary with increased respect, ‘ ‘they’ll do you 
credit I’ll be bound. You use patent foods 
any?” 

“Only Nestle’s,” said her victim imblush- 
ingly. “I find it is cheapest and has best 
results,” she went on, recalling by some 
automatic process the last advertisement she 
had read. 

“Well, I guess they must be two sweet 
little boys,” said Mrs. Branson with a sigh. 

Was it the demon of self-conceit that 
tempted Lady Mary to her fall? She had 
passed so well through the early stages of her 
ordeal that she might have left well alone, 
but she succumbed to the temptation of the 
artist to gild the refined gold. 

“Oh no,” she said, “it’s a boy and a girl: 

! 84 ] 


MOTHER 


AND 


SONS 


Evelyn is a little girl and the baby’s the only 
boy.” 

“And who’s this cute little feUow?” said 
Mrs. Branson, picking up a photograph 
which stood framed on a table at her elbow. 
“Oh I see, he’s got his name written — 
‘Evelyn Howard, aged 4.’ But I thought 
you said he was a girl?” 

Lady Mary blushed scarlet, and uttered a 
silent malediction on her own imprudence: 
why hadn’t she remembered? why hadn’t 
Dick told her? why, above all, hadn’t she 
had the sense to notice the accusing photo- 
graph? But she was fairly in for it now and 
she set her teeth. 

“Oh that?” she said in a low voice, 
“that’s my husband’s son by his first mar- 
riage.” 

“Ah dear, dear, and that’ll be the poor 
httle boy’s mother, I suppose,” said Mrs. 
Branson, looking at a larger photograph on 
the same table. “Well, isn’t that too queer? 
She’s like you, and yet I should know you 
apart, and she has the same name too — 
Ahce. And your httle girl’s called Evelyn 
tool Well, I must say you have to keep 
pretty wide awake in your family with two 
Alices and two Evelyns, let alone their being 
[851 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

two different sexes: she looks a fine strong 
young thing in her picture — ^but there, one 
never knows which of us mayn’t be taken.” 

At this point Lady Mary suddenly saw 
red: anger at herself for her blunder, anger 
at her own embarrassment, anger at her in- 
satiable questioner combined to make her 
plunge deeper and deeper. 

“No,” she said in a voice shaking with 
fury, though the worthy Mrs. Branson attrib- 
uted it to grief. “No, she’s not dead. I 
sometimes wish to Heaven that she were I 
She left my husband in very distressing cir- 
cumstances, Mrs. Branson, and I must beg 
you not to ask me more. It is a subject on 
which I find it very difficult and painful to 
speak.” 

Mrs. Branson was genuinely distressed at 
the sad memories she had aroused: she 
pressed Lady Mary’s hand in silent sym- 
pathy, and suggested tactfully that her 
daughter might be asked to play: “She has 
studied under the best masters in the old 
country, Mrs. Howard, and they are unani- 
mously of the opinion that she has a real gift 
for the instrument.” 

Her hostess caught at the proposal, and 
while Diana performed at the piano, with a 
[ 86 ] 


MOTHER AND SONS 

touch which justified her mother’s praise, she 
reflected gloomily on the needless difficulties 
into which she had incautiously plunged. 
A stepson was an uncalled for burden, but 
why had she not been content with that, 
without superadding the difficulties of a di- 
vorce? Uncle Bob must be warned — but no, 
it was impossible to speak to him. Nothing 
could be done till Dick returned, and the set 
jaw with which she registered that conclusion 
boded ill for the peace of mind of the irre- 
sponsible baronet. 

It was a relief when the arrival of the 
gentlemen changed the gloomy course of her 
meditations: Mrs. Branson annexed Pro- 
fessor Lapski, whose gloom grew deeper, if 
possible, as he listened to her conversation. 
The Archdeacon stationed himself by the 
piano, while Ranby made his way to Miss 
Montford whom he knew for a congenial 
spirit, and in whose company he foresaw at 
least a brief respite from clerical topics. 
“But I shall have to be uncommon careful,” 
he said to himself; “it wouldn’t do to have 
old Paul cutting me out, confound him! I 
must go slow, deuced slow.” Mr. Walton 
and his hostess were left together, and it was 
a relief to her to find one who was, though he 
187 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


knew it not, a fellow victim with herself. 
He was only too ready to unbosom himself 
to his niece. 

“My dear Alice,” he said hotly, though 
in a low voice, “the thing’s getting unbear- 
able. When that infernal young ass, your 
brother, asked me to take on the part of an 
Indian Civilian I little guessed what it meant, 
or I’d have seen him damned first. You 
must forgive my strong language, my dear,” 
he added apologetically, “but really my life’s 
been a perfect misery for the last hour or so. 
First there’s that silly old woman getting up 
a row about drink, and letting me in for 
talking a lot of nonsense about Ghi or Bang 
or whatever the beastly stuff’s called — and 
since you’ve been gone that Archdeacon’s 
been at me hammer and tongs about Foreign 
Missions and mass movements and so on. I 
don’t know what I’ve said: I know it was as 
little as I could, but at last he asked me right 
out where I’d been stationed, and I said 
Masuhpatam, just because it came into my 
head. And now I don’t know whereabouts 
it is! And that’s not the worst of it, for I’d 
told young Ranby this afternoon I lived right 
up in the middle of the country, and if 
Masulipatam’s on the coast, as it’s ten to one 
[ 88 ] 


MOTHER AND SONS 

it is, I’m simply done for. I suppose there’s 
a map or something in the house, but I tell 
you what it is, AHce, I simply can’t stand the 
strain of it, and I won’t, and as soon as Master 
Dick’s come back I’m going to have it out 
with him and tell him so.” 

The worthy brewer mopped his forehead, 
and went on more quietly. ‘ ‘You must for- 
give me making such a fuss, my dear, but 
you’ve no idea what a strain it is living a 
double life like this . ’ ’ Mr . W alton little knew 
how responsive an echo his words awakened 
in his hostess’s heart. ‘ ‘And then there’s that 
fellow Lapski,” he added, “I don’t half like 
his looks, nor the way he looks at me. I 
caught him at it once or twice at dinner.” 

The mention of Lapski reminded Lady 
Mary of the shock she had received at dinner, 
which had faded into the background under 
the stress of later emotions: her alarm revived 
now in double measure. Surely it was right 
to give Mr. Walton some warning of his 
danger 

“No, Uncle Bob,” she answered in the 
same low tone, ‘ ‘I don’t half like him either. 
I can’t help being afraid he’s dangerous. 
Do you know at dinner he had one of his 
visions, or whatever they’re called, and got 
[ 89 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


quite excited, and I asked him what it was 
and he kept looking at you and sniffing and 
saying that he smelt beer.” 

“What!” cried Mr. Walton, rising in his 
seat, “confound his impudence!” 

“Oh, do speak quietly. Uncle Bob! He 
really didn’t say it impertinently. I can’t help 
wondering if there mayn’t be something in 
his clairvoyance: there were one or two other 
things he told me which really were most re- 
markable. I can’t tell you what they were, 
Ibut they more than half convinced me that he 
really did see things that weren’t on the 
surface.” 

“Well, that settles it,” said Uncle Bob, 
“it’s bad enough being a sham Indian 
Civilian without having a specially trained 
detective on one’s track. I shall speak to 
Master Dick the very moment he gets back.” 

“My dear Uncle Bob,” said Lady Mary, 
“you can have no idea how warmly I sym- 
pathise with you” (it’s a relief, she thought 
to herself, to say something that’s undeniably 
true) , ‘ ‘but I do hope you’ll just wait till you 
see him, and give the poor old boy a chance. 
I know he’ll be wretched at the thought of 
what he’s let you in for.” 

Mr. Walton growled — ^but his good nature 

[901 


MOTHER 


AND 


SONS 


was fast reasserting itself now that he had 
blown off steam, and as there was clearly 
nothing to be done except to wait for Dick 
he made the concession with a good grace. 

No further untoward incident marred the 
harmony of the evening. Mr. Walton had 
a game of bridge with the three younger mem- 
bers of the party, and as the Professor and 
Mrs. Branson were still deep in conversation 
Lady Mary surrendered herself to the Arch- 
deacon, who maintained an impassioned 
monologue on the follies of bishops, the 
conservatism of incumbents, and the exces- 
sive Liberalism of the unbeneficed clergy, 
leaving on the mind of his hearer the inevit- 
able reflection that impeccabihty was the 
property of Archdeacons alone. 

At last the hour arrived when the ladies 
might reasonably retire. The Archdeacon, 
who was no smoker, decided to go to bed, 
while the other three sought the smoking- 
room, each with the deep-seated but con- 
cealed determination to stay up till Sir Richard 
came home and to have a few earnest words 
with him in private. 

In these circumstances conversation was 
not likely to flourish, and indeed few words 
were exchanged. The Professor sat deep in 
[ 91 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


a chair, plunged in meditations apparently of 
the gloomiest order: Mr. Walton prowled 
round the bookshelves, conducting an uneasy 
and furtive search for an atlas or for an 
encyclopedia: Lord Ranby toyed for some 
time with a novel and then betook himself to 
writing letters. Midnight arrived without 
Sir Richard: it brought instead Wilson, to 
say that a telephone message had just come 
through to say that his master could not be 
back for at least another hour. The prospect 
of a prolonged vigil was not alluring, and as 
none of the three showed any signs of creating 
a solitude for any of the others, they decided 
by common but unspoken agreement to go 
to bed. 


[ 92 ] 


CHAPTER VII 


THE LETTER GAME 

To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow. 

Shakespeare. 

iR Richard’s slumbers were broken 
by Wilson at what seemed to the 
baronet an unreasonably early 
horn*. 

“Beg pardon, but there are 
some notes for you, Sir Richard, 
all marked immediate,” said the butler. 

His master yawned and stretched out his 
hand: there was no doubt about it: in their 
different degrees each bore the marks of 
urgency. “Please dehver at once,'* “Im- 
mediate.” “Personal and mgent.” “To be 
given to Sir Richard before breakfast.” He 
opened one at random: it was from Ranby. 

My dear Dick — Fm in the devil of a mess 
and have had to pass myself off as Paul: I’ll ex- 
plain why when we meet. Don’t give me away. 
Yours ever. 



[ 93 ] 


Peter. 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


P.S . — ril be up early to-morrow, and if you 
could be in the smoking-room before breakfast 
I’ll tell you how it happened. 

Sir Richard chuckled. “By Jove! the plot 
thickens!” he said. I didn’t think there was 
going to be a fourth conspirator in the party: 
I wonder what on earth Peter’s been up to! 
Let’s see how the rest are getting on” — and he 
opened the second letter. It was from his 
uncle. 

My dear Dick — This is just a hurried line to 
let you know that your idiotic scheme has nearly 
worn me out. It hasn’t saved me from that 
meddling old Transatlantic lunatic and it has 
nearly worn me to a shadow. I’ve talked it all 
over with your sister and she quite agrees that 
the game is up. You must get yourself (and me) 
out of it the best way you can: anyhow just 
understand that I’ve done with it. I’ll wait till 
I’ve had a word with you and I think the best 
plan would be if you came down to the smoking- 
room before breakfast to-morrow. I’ll be on 
the look out for you and we can have a few 
minutes’ quiet talk, but don’t fancy you’re going 
to talk me over, for my mind’s made up. I’d 
sooner go back to London to-morrow than go 
on with this infernal game. — Yr. aff. uncle, 

R. Walton. 


[ 94 ] 


THE 


LETTER 


GAME 


Sir Richard whistled. “Poor old Uncle 
Bob! he must have been having a rotten 
time. I wonder what Mary said to him. 
Perhaps one of these is from her: yes! let’s 
have a look at it.” The third letter was 
longer and more explicit. 

My dear old Dick — Well, I can tell you Pve 
stretched my affection for you to the furthest 
point and it’s wearing a bit thin! We’ve had 
the most fearful evening. Your poor old Uncle 
Bob is nearly at the end of his tether and I 
don’t wonder: he’s been baited by Mrs. Branson 
and the Archdeacon, and seems to think he’s 
given a wrong address in India and may be 
spotted at any moment. 

And then that Professor Lapski seems to have 
some suspicions of him (and of me too for that 
matter) which made us both fearfully uncom- 
fortable. And I’ve had a dreadful time with 
Mrs. B . I had to tell her that George was married 
before, and that his wife ran away and he di- 
vorced her, and that I’m his second wife. I 
know it sounds absurd, but you’ve no idea how 
one thing leads to another. If you’ll be in the 
smoking-room before breakfast to-morrow I’ll 
explain it all: it takes too long on paper. I 
really don’t think I can go on: anyhow I know I 
can’t go on listening to the Archdeacon! I’ve 
had a solid hour of him to-night — I hoped he’d 
[951 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


get on with Mr. Ranby, but they hardly seem 
to have anything in common and I didn’t think 
the Archdeacon took to him at all. 

Well, I must go to bed: it’s been a most 
fearful strain. Au revoir early to-morrow. — Yrs. 
affly. 

Mary. 

P.S . — I think Diana’s charming. 

P. P. S. — Who is Professor Lapski? 

This letter gave Sir Richard plenty of food 
for thought: “Poor old Mary!” he mur- 
mured; ‘ ‘she must have had the very devil of 
a time, too, but what on earth made her drag 
the family into the divorce court And 
Peter too: I’m not surprised the Arch- 
deacon thought him a queer sort of parson! ” 
He re-read the letter, and this time he paused 
at the postscripts: “I’m glad she likes 
Diana,” he thought, ‘ ‘but I knew she would.” 
“ ‘Who is Lapski.^’” “Good old Smiler, 
I knew he’d play up!” 

The last letter was from his friend England. 
It was short and to the point. 

Be in the smoking-room to-morrow before 
breakfast. I must have a word with you. T. E. 

“By George!” observed the baronet; 
“there’U he some sport in the smoking- 
196 ] 


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GAME 


room: Fd better get there and be in at 
the death.” And the baronet sprang out 
of bed. 

Mr. Walton had risen early after a dis- 
turbed night: his sleep had been fitful and 
the dreams which had visited him had not 
conduced to repose. A howling mob of 
natives mounted on dromedaries, obviously 
the worse for liquor, and urged on by the 
sinister figure of Lapski, had formed the 
central piece of his most coherent vision: in 
another he had seen his wife sitting side by 
side with Mrs. Branson and had awakened 
with a shout of terror just as she opened her 
lips to speak: he felt a moral certainty that 
the word he had screamed out was Masuli- 
patam. 

To a man of orderly habits, who normally 
enjoyed eight hours of dreamless sleep, these 
experiences were most distressing: he rose 
from his fevered couch more than ever deter- 
mined to bring the matter to a close without 
further delay. He dressed in haste and 
descended to the smoking-room, athirst for 
his nephew’s blood. He found it empty, and 
his sense of equity compelled him to admit 
that Sir Richard could hardly be blamed for 
[971 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

unpunctuality as yet: after all, he couldn’t 
have had a very long night. 

He strolled over to the book-case: last 
night had revealed to him the position of the 
atlas, though he had not dared to consult 
it openly: there could be no harm in ascer- 
taining the position of Masulipatam, though 
he was firmly determined that his connection 
with that abhorred city must be brought to a 
summary close. The index said Gi, and he 
felt a thrill of illogical self-satisfaction on 
finding that the district indicated lay well up 
in the mountains: his triumph was as brief 
as it was undeserved: research in the map 
showed no such place: a second recourse to 
the index showed that he had misread the 
letters Gi and the horrid truth was soon 
revealed that Masulipatam lay indubitably, 
almost impudently, upon the coast. Mr. 
Walton shut up the atlas with a bang, the 
sense of unmerited grievance strong upon 
him. 

It is the nature of a sense of grievance to 
corrupt even the most equitable mind: how 
often had Mr. Walton in old days — even the 
day before yesterday — complained of the lack 
of attention to the opinion of their elders 
shown by the younger generation! His 
[981 


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GAME 


complaints were now of a very different order. 
“Confound that young Ranhyl” he mut- 
tered; “he’s sure to remember what I said: 
just look how he caught me up over that 
infernal Bang! I wish to goodness these 
young men wouldn’t hang upon my words 
like this. It seems as if I can’t open my 
lips without being taken for an oracle.” 

“Good-morning, Mr. Walton,” said a 
voice behind him. He looked up: there 
stood the very young man whose ill-timed 
courtesy he had been upbraiding: he grunted 
out a rather surly greeting. Lord Ranby 
was not offended. 

‘ ‘I see you’ve got the map there,” he went 
on with unimpaired good humour. “I won- 
der if you’d show me just where your dis- 
trict is: my brother-in-law’s just gone out 
to govern Madras — I think I told you — and 
he’ll be interested to hear we’ve been talking 
about Indian affairs. I hope you won’t mind 
my saying I thought the Archdeacon was 
joUy rude last night: he didn’t seem to 
believe anything you said. Rather cheek, I 
thought, when he’s never been near the place, 
and you’ve lived there all your life.” 

Various emotions surged through Mr. 
Walton’s mind as he listened to this ingenu- 
[ 99 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

ous speech. He had started the morning, as 
we know, with some prejudice against Ranhy, 
but his sense of justice, never far from the 
surface, was beginning to tell him that his 
irritation was unfair. After all, Ranhy had 
only believed him too imphcitly, and that 
was hardly a crime. What he said about the 
Archdeacon was as balm to the bruised soul 
of the brewer. He felt the stirrings of an 
almost paternal affection for this young 
clergyman, so unclerical in his shooting coat, 
so certain (if opportunity served) to agree 
with him about the enormities of the neo- 
Catholics. A wave of honesty swept him off 
his feet: his promise to Dick was for the 
moment forgotten. 

“Look here, Mr. Ranhy,” he said, “I’ve 
got an apology to make to you: the fact is 
I’m not an Indian Civilian at all: I’ve never 
been near the place! I’m a brewer, and not 
ashamed of it either,” he went on hotly. 
‘ ‘It was that young ass of a nephew of mine 
who started that other story to try and keep 
Mrs. Branson quiet — and a rare lot of good 
it’s done too! I was fool enough to agree, 
just to keep him out of trouble, but I see now 
it was a siUy thing to do. I’d no business to 
be telling a pack of Hes, and your beheving 
[ 100 ] 


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LETTER 


G A M E 


them makes it all the worse. It’s been a 
lesson to me, and I can only say I beg your 
pardon. Of course, a clergyman like you 
can’t be expected to think it’s a very good 
story, I know, but anyhow that’s the truth, 
and I’m uncommonly glad to have told it at 
last.” And Mr. Walton blew his nose with 
some emotion. 

The effect of his communication surprised 
him: he had expected annoyance, and was 
prepared to allow that it was not unnatural, 
but he was not prepared, and was indeed a 
little offended, to see Mr. Ranby sink into a 
chair convulsed with merriment, and laugh 
until the tears ran down his cheeks. 

“I’ve no doubt it seems very funny to 
you,” he said a little huffily, “but I assure 
you it’s not been very pleasant to me: per- 
haps I shall see the humour of it later on.” 

Mr. Ranby pulled himself together. “It’s 
not that, Mr. Walton,” he gasped, still 
struggling with his emotions, “please don’t 
think I was laughing at you! I think you’ve 
behaved simply splendidly and old Dick 
ought to be shot for putting you in such a 
hole. The fact is,” he went on, with an- 
other spasm of laughter, “the fact is we’re 
both in the same boat and it’s I who ought to 
[1011 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


be apologising. You see, Fm not a parson 
either!” 

“Then what the deuce are youP” asked 
Mr. Walton, still a little ruffled; “didn’t I 
hear you say ” 

“Oh yes, of course I said it, but it wasn’t 
true any more than your yarn about India — 
and Bang and Ghi. Oh Lord!” and the 
young gentleman collapsed once more. He 
steadied himself. “You see, sir, the fact is 
I’m Peter Ranby, not Paul, and when I heard 
that old brute in the train abusing Paul I 
thought I’d pretend it was me just for a lark 
— and then when I found you were coming 
on here I had to stick to it — and I had to 
steal the Archdeacon’s waistcoat and talk 
about the Potteries till I’m sick to death of 
the whole business! ” 

Mr. Walton’s brain was working rapidly. 
“Then you’re not a teetotaller?” he asked, 
his mind fastening on an unimportant detail, 
“and you did order a gin and ginger at 
Shrewsbury? ” 

“Of course Fm not,” said Peter, “and I 
can tell you it went to my heart last night 
having to drink that barley water just because 
I knew you’d got your eye on me.” 

The thought of the sufferings of which he 
[ 102 ] 


THE 


LETTER 


GAME 


had been the innocent cause broke down the 
last feeling of resentment in the brewer’s 
mind. “Upon my word,” he said, smiling, 
“there doesn’t seem to be much to choose 
between us: we might call that hole halved, I 
think.” 

“Faulty approach from a good lie and 
both players in the rough,” said Ranhy, ‘ ‘but 
by Jove, we’re both of us in the hole now! 
I wonder how we’re to get out of it.” 

“Well, I don’t mind telling you,” said Mr. 
Walton, “that I made an appointment with 
my nephew here this morning to tell him I 
simply couldn’t go on.” 

Lord Ranhy laughed again. “That’s 
good,” he said; “why, I made an appoint- 
ment with him too! I sent him a hne last 
night to tell him I’d had to pretend to be 
Paul, and to ask him to fix up what was to 
happen next.” 

“Well, I recommend you,” said Mr. Wal- 
ton, ‘ ‘to make a clean cut as I’m going to do.” 

His companion meditated . ‘ ‘There are one 
or two difficulties,” he said at last. ‘ ‘There’s 
bound to be an awful row: Mrs. Branson and 
the Archdeacon are pretty sure to cut up 
rough if they find we’ve been fooling them — 
[ 103 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


and then there’s Lapski — not that he matters 
much.” 

“I’m not so sure,” replied Mr. Walton; 
‘ ‘I rather fancy from something my niece said 
last night that he’s got a suspicion already: 
I can’t say I like the fellow’s looks.” 

“We must ask Dick about him,” said Lord 
Ranby; ‘ ‘you know I think the best thing we 
can do is just to wait for Dick and have it all 
out with him. He’s bound to be here soon 
and we’ve stiU got a few minutes before 
breakfast. By Jove, here he is!” he added, 
and in fact at that moment Sir Richard 
appeared in the smoking-room. 

“Good-morning, Uncle Bob!” he said; 
“good-morning, Ranby! I’m awfully sorry 
to have behaved so badly yesterday. I 
simply couldn’t help it. If you knew all Fd 
been through at my meeting I tell you you’d 
be sorry for me! Three solid hours of answer- 
ing questions on subjects I knew nothing 
about! You’ve no idea what a strain it is!” 

“Oh, haven’t we.^” said his uncle grimly. 
“I fancy Lord Ranby and I could tell you 
something on that subject. Yes, that’s all 
right,” he added, noticing his nephew’s 
glance at Peter, “I know who Lord Ranby 
is, and what’s more he knows who I am, and 

[ 104 ] 


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LETTER 


GAME 


the whole house is going to know it directly. 
I tell you, as I said in my letter, I’m simply 
sick to death of all this impostme. I’m 
going to go straight to Mrs. Branson and tell 
her right out that I’m a ” 

The word died on his lips; he was look- 
ing towards the window, and Sir Richard, 
following his gaze, saw the melancholy face of 
Lapski peering into the room. The window 
opened to the ground and he stepped inside. 

“You seek Mrs. Branson?” he said; “I 
see her, it is but a moment — in the room of 
breakfast: it is so you call him, yes? Ah, 
Sir Richard, you are come back?” He ad- 
vanced and shook his host warmly by the 
hand. “Yes,” he went on, “she has what 
you call the force of character! Last night 
she speak to me, it is two, three hours, of her 
husband: she wishes that I make him speak 
to her. I am silent but she asks it much, 
she weeps on my arm — and so when now I 
see her come into the room I pass out into 
the free air that I may think at peace. Her 
husband will speak, it may be — but before 
breakfast, no! it is not the time!” 

He ceased with a melancholy shake of the 
head and fixed his inscrutable eyes upon his 
host. 


1105] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


“My dear Professor,” said Sir Richard, 
“I quite understand: I’ll teU her she must 
wait a bit. Ah, here’s Mrs. Howard: I’ll 
tell her she must keep Mrs. Branson quiet 
for a bit.” As he spoke he ushered Lapski 
to the window again, whispering in his ear 
as he got him outside, “Sorry, old chap! 
we’ll get a word together after breakfast.” 

He returned to greet Lady Mary, who was 
saluting her two other guests. “Good- 
morning, Alice! I got hack as soon as I could, 
hut I’m afraid I’ve been a shocking host so 
far. Look here, wiU you go in and begin 
breakfast.^ I’m told Mrs. Branson’s there. 
I’ve got to fix up one or two things with 
Uncle Bob and Ranby about to-day’s shoot. 
Through the window’s your quickest way: 
you’ll find the Professor just ahead.” 

As she passed out he murmured, in answer 
to the mute question on her face, “After 
breakfast! I’ll come and fetch you in the 
drawing-room.” 


[ 106 ] 


CHAPTER VIII 


AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE 

Our better jpart remains 
To work in close design, by fraud or guile. 

Milton. 

IR Richard turned back into the 
room to face the indignant Mr. 
Walton, whose nerves were still 
quivering with the shock of Lap- 
ski’s unexpected apparition. His 
nephew realised that he had a 
difficult game to play, hut he was, as has been 
indicated, an optimist, and he did not despair 
of establishing a modus vivendi. There would 
not be time for a complete readjustment 
before breakfast, and he counted, not without 
reason, on hunger as an argument which would 
curtail the discussion. If only he could per- 
suade Uncle Bob to postpone his exposure for 
a few hours, something might turn up, and it 
was to secure this object that he devoted his 
efforts. 



[ 107 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


“My dear Uncle Bob,” he began, “I 
can’t tell you how sorry I am! If I’d dreamt 
it would mean so much bother for you I’d 
never have suggested it for a moment. I 
quite see how stupid it was of me.” 

Mr. Walton was not to be mollified. 
“Stupid!” he retorted; “of course it was 
stupid! You might have known that Arch- 
deacon was a perfect fiend at asking ques- 
tions. Didn’t you say he’s been a school- 
master Well, it’s all very well badgering 
little boys, but I’m too old to hke it, and I 
tell you I won’t stand it!” 

“Yes, I’m bound to say, Dick,” put in 
Ranby, “the Archdeacon was fearfully down 
on Mr. Walton last night: I was just saying 
I couldn’t think how he managed to keep his 
temper. I can’t think how he came to have 
such a nice daughter — ^it’s a precious sight 
more than he deserves. She plays an un- 
conunon good game of bridge, sir, didn’t 
you think.^” he added to Mr. Walton, in the 
hope of diverting his thoughts. 

“Oh yes. I’ve nothing against /ier,” con- 
ceded the brewer, “but then there’s Mrs. 
Branson! I quite see you thought I shouldn’t 
like to have her attacking me direct, but 
I’m blest if it wouldn’t be better than 
[108] 


A N 


UNHOLY 


ALLIANCE 


these continual innuendoes. And Tve let 
myself in for being an expert about all sorts 
of native drinks too. Now beer I do know 
something about, but when it comes to 
Ghi ” 

“Bang,” put in Peter. 

‘ ‘Well Ghi or Bang, or whatever it’s called. 
I’m as ignorant as the babe unborn!” 

“You kept your end up awfully well, I 
thought, sir,” said Peter, who had realised 
that Dick’s object was to soothe his uncle, and 
was playing to his lead with ready loyalty. 

“Well, I didn’t give myself away alto- 
gether,” said Mr. Walton, yielding to flat- 
tery, “but the strain was something fearful.” 

Sir Richard thought that the auspicious 
moment had arrived. “Well, look here,” 
he said, “I’m making you awfully late for 
breakfast and we really can’t settle things up 
before then. What I suggest is this: you 
and Ranby know all about one another now: 
(by the way, Peter, I want to hear your yarn 
soon and how you got into your own par- 
ticular mess)! As I was saying, you and 
Ranby know all about one another, and I 
know Peter ’ll back you up for all he’s worth 
— and I shall be there too in case anything 
goes wrong. Don’t you think you could 
[ 109 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

just keep it up for a bit longer, and you see 
we shall be out shooting all day, so that Mrs. 
Branson and Lapski will be out of the way — 
he doesn’t shoot, you know — and Peter and 
I’ll manage the Archdeacon between us. I 
should be most awfully grateful, and just 
think what a hole Alice and I will be in if you 
give the thing away! I know it’s an awful lot 
to ask after the way I’ve let you down 
already, but I can’t tell you how grateful I 
should be if you could possibly manage to do 
it.” 

Mr. Walton wavered: the pangs of hun- 
ger were beginning to assert themselves, 
and reinforced distaste for what must clearly 
be an unpleasant scene and his very genuine 
liking for his penitent nephew. Ranby saw 
his hesitation and gave the final impetus. 

“Oh come along, Mr. Walton,” he said, 
“let’s give old Dick a run for his money: 
you mustn’t desert me either if it comes to 
that, and I can’t possibly own up now, what- 
ever you do. You can trust me to play up 
to your lead if you give me half a chance, 
we’ll be even with that old Archdeacon yet, 
and then we can have a real good talk when 
we get in this afternoon and settle the whole 
business up.” 


1 1101 


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UNHOLY 


ALLIANCE 


Mr. Walton had hesitated, the old proverb 
was fulfilled, and he was lost. It is sweet to 
have a companion in duplicity as in sorrow, 
and Lord Ranhy’s appeal had touched his 
chivalrous heart. He yielded, and the baro- 
net, with a sigh of unfeigned relief, shep- 
herded his two guests into the breakfast room. 

On entering the breakfast room. Sir Rich- 
ard, after greeting his other guests, devoted 
himself to Miss Branson: Lord Ranhy found 
a vacant place by Miss Montford, and Mr. 
Walton, already cursing the perfidy of his 
new allies, found himself compelled to sit 
next the Archdeacon. His worst forebodings 
were quickly fulfilled. 

“I was so much interested, Mr. Walton,” 
said his neighbour, “in our little discussion 
last night that I should greatly like to con- 
tinue it. But I have a confession to make! 
You Anglo-Indians never quite realise the 
depth of our English ignorance, and you’ll 
laugh when I tell you that when I heard you 
mention Masuhpatam I had no idea where it 
was.” 

Mr. Walton was far from laughter, but he 
murmured an unintelligible response. 

“I know it’s disgraceful,” went on his 
[1111 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


tormentor playfully, “but Fm bound to 
confess I had to look it up in the map.” 

Mr. Walton gave a grunt which was ac- 
cepted by the Archdeacon as one of amused 
surprise: it really conveyed his disgust at the 
indecently plentiful supply of atlases in the 
house. 

“And then of course I realised, what I 
ought to have known all along, that it’s in the 
diocese of Madras. And that brings me to 
my point,” he concluded, tapping his finger 
on the table (“an infuriating trick” thought 
Mr. Walton). “The Bishop of Madras 
was over here quite recently, and he certainly 
gave us to understand that the standard of 
temperance among natives in his diocese was 
remarkably high. That looks as if things 
had changed considerably for the better of 
late: let me see, how long did you say you 
had been at home.^” 

The long-suffering Mr. Walton glanced 
round for assistance: was he never to have 
a meal in peace without the nauseous trail of 
Bang thrown over it.^ Sir Richard was 
listening ardently to Miss Diana: it was 
clear that no help was to be expected from 
that quarter. ‘ ‘That just comes of trusting 
my young fool of a nephew,” thought his 
[ 112 ] 


A N 


UNHOLY 


ALLIANCE 


uncle savagely: he turned to face the Arch- 
deacon, when a voice from across the table 
fell like halm on his troubled ear. 

“I think I can explain that,” said Lord 
Ranby, “my brother-in-law, Fitzherbert, has 
just gone out as Governor of Madras and 
he’s written us a very full account of his 
troubles there. He’s a wonderful letter 
writer, and I was much struck with what he 
said about the two divisions of the Presi- 
dency. It appears that down in the plains the 
people are as sober as can be — just as you, 
sir, were saying,” he went on turning to the 
Archdeacon, ‘ ‘but up in the hills they’re regu- 
lar demons for drink. They make it, I under- 
stand, by water power: little cascades down 
from the mountains: each little village has 
its own little cascade and its own little Bang 
factory (he calls it Bang,” he explained 
apologetically to Mr. Walton, “but of course 
every one knows they’re two names for the 
same thing), and there they live getting as 
drunk as lords. It’s a disgusting sight 
according to Charles Fitzherbert, perfectly 
disgusting — but it quite bears out what Mr. 
Walton was saying last night.” 

Mr. Walton’s countenance beamed with 
delight: he resumed his breakfast with 
[ 113 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

renewed appetite. The Archdeacon was 
silenced, though not entirely convinced: he 
did not approve of Mr. Ranby nor of the 
trace of levity in his handling of the subject, 
but Lord Fitzherbert’s evidence was xm- 
deniable, and the frank and open countenance 
of the young clergyman disarmed scepticism. 
Seeking a more congenial atmosphere he 
turned to Mrs. Branson. 

‘T do hope, Mrs. Branson, that before 
you leave this country you will find time to 
see something of om temperance work in the 
North: we flatter ourselves that we have a 
good deal to teach the South of England— 
and even the Midlands,” he added, with a 
glance at the unconscious Ranby. 

“Well, I do think that is just too sweet 
of you,” responded Mrs. Branson, “and I 
should just love to see those old dilapidations 
you were talking of last night: they must be 
too cute for anything.” 

The Archdeacon gave a slight shiver: he 
had not realised how strange an interpreta- 
tion the famihar word might bear. 

“But Fm afraid,” went on Mrs. Branson, 
unconscious of the pain she had caused, “I 
can’t get there this fall: I have to go right 
back to the States the end of this week: 

[ 114 ] 


A N 


UNHOLY 


ALLIANCE 


I’ve taken my berth on the Carmania and I 
have to be in Chicago for a great rally of 
Freedom’s Eldest Daughters on the 14th. I 
told Sir Richard it was just all I could do to 
get here, but I wouldn’t have missed it for 
the world. I just love this old English 
country life, and I think you gentlemen do 
look too sweet for words in those natty little 
knickerbockers .” 

A slight blush rose to the Archdeacon’s 
face: he had a good leg, and had secretly 
welcomed his promotion to his present office 
for personal as well as professional reasons. 

“I do hope you aren’t taking your daugh- 
ter with you,” said Lady Mary: “it is 
too bad to take her away just when she is 
beginning to see something of England. 
You can’t count London in the season as 
being really England, you know!” 

“Well, no,” answered Mrs. Branson, 
‘ ‘Diana is going to stop over for a few weeks 
with some real charming folk we met in 
Paris last fall. They’re going to bring her 
back with them in November.” 

“That’s right,” said Lady Mary heartily, 
“I wish I could persuade her to visit us in 
London — or no. I’m afraid we shall be in Nor- 
folk,” she added with a pang of recollection. 

[1151 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


‘ ‘Yes, I should have loved her to see that 
sweet little Evelyn of yours,” said Mrs. 
Branson sentimentally, “and that other poor 
little Evelyn too,” she added, sighing. “I 
can’t tell you how touched I was with all you 
told me last night. I tell you I just wept 
over it when I was going to bed; didn’t I, 
Diana P The poor little mite ! ’ ’ 

Lady Mary glanced at Uncle Bob, but he 
was making up for lost time with his break- 
fast, and seemed to have heard nothing. 

“Thank you, thank you, dear Mrs. Bran- 
son,” she said, “but now, if Uncle Bob will 
forgive us, I think we ought to desert him: 
I’ve got to settle about luncheon for the 
shooters. You’ll look in on me in the draw- 
ing-room before you start, won’t you, Dick.^^” 
The ladies withdrew, and Lapski, who 
had been waiting for his opportunity, nodded 
unobserved to Sir Richard, in the direction of 
the garden. He joined him there in a few 
minutes and the pair strolled out of sight of 
the house. 

“Smiler, old man,” cried the baronet, 
clapping his friend on the back, “you are a 
great man! I shouldn’t have believed any 
one could have done so splendidly. That 
wig of yours is perfect, and you simply give 
[ 116 ] 


A N 


UNHOLY 


ALLIANCE 


me the creeps to look at. I tell you you’ve 
absolutely put the wind up Uncle Bob and 
Peter I They’re scared to death of your 
finding them out: by the way, did you know 
that’s Peter and not Paul.^ They seem to 
have got mixed somehow: I haven’t had 
time to find out how. And Mary too! She 
wrote me a letter to say you half frightened 
her out of her wits. You must have had a 
magnificent evening. Svengali’s not in it 
with you: you ought to stick to this fine, old 
chap — it suits you down to the ground!” 

But Sir Richard’s eulogies woke no an- 
swering response in England’s countenance. 
“It’s all very well,” he growled, “the bet- 
ter one does this sort of job the more infer- 
nal idiot one looks. It’s all very well for 
you, Dick, but how’d you like Miss Branson 
to see you dressed up as a German Jew or 
Charlie Chaplin or Jack Johnson, and have 
every one saying they’d never know you 
apart. He snorted angrily. 

“Oh well,” Sir Richard began, “of course 
there are limits, and if you had the good taste 
to be in love with Miss Branson things would 
be a bit different.” 

England snorted again: his perturbation 
was so obvious that Dick’s perceptions were 
[1171 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

aroused. He cast a quick glance at the 
Professor’s moody face: “My word,” he 
thought to himself, ‘ ‘I wonder if that can be 
it.^ that would explain his making such a point 
of my not giving him away, and he did say 
he’d met Mary once or twice. Poor old 
Tommy! It is a bit rough on him if that’s 
what’s up.” They paced up and down in 
silence for a few minutes before the Captain 
resumed. 

“Then there’s Mrs. B. My word, Dick, 
you’ll have a Tartar of a mother-in-law if you 
ever get so far! She’s absolutely bent on 
having some words with the late Branson: 
she was at me for two mortal hours last night. 
I’ve fobbed her off so far, said Monday was 
an off day with the spirits, sort of early 
closing business or words to that effect: but 
she’ll have me in the end, and then I’ve 
either got to run for it or rouse old Branson 
from the tomb — and I simply don’t think it 
can be done with the instruments to hand. 
That’s what I wanted to ask you about: 
what do you want me to do.^” 

Sir Bichard pondered deeply. “It’s jolly 
hard to say,” he answered at last. “I think 
I’d better try and get some pointers out of his 
daughter in case we have to bring the old 
[1181 


A N 


UNHOLY 


ALLIANCE 


man on, but Fm like you, and Fd a lot rather 
let the sleeping Bransons lie. It may be 
necessary in the end, but we must just live 
from hand to mouth a bit longer.” 

“That’s all very well for you,” grumbled 
England, “I find a lot of things put in my 
mouth that I’ve no sort of use for.” 

“I see. Tommy, I really do see, old 
man,” said his friend sympathetically. “I 
know it’s a lonely furrow and a long trail and 
all that, but you must just keep it up a bit 
longer. The fact is, Fm just playing for 
time as Napoleon or Paderewski or one of 
those continental fellows said. ‘Ask me for 
anything but time,’ that’s it — and it’s time I 
want — and by Jove, that reminds me. I’ve 
got to see Mary before we go out. Stick to 
it, old man, for my sake and keep smihngl 
I’ll see you again this evening.” 

The baronet hurried off, meditating as he 
went on the new complication introduced 
into the situation by the unexpected glimpse 
he fancied he had had into England’s feelings 
for Lady Mary. “Good old Smiler,” he 
thought, ‘ ‘that would be first rate: he’s a real 
sahib if ever there was one I I wonder if Mary 
— well, she might do a jolly sight worse!” 

It may have been the personal turn thus 
11191 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


given to his reflections: it may have been 
elation at the successful issue of his negotia- 
tions with his aggrieved friends: it may have 
been simple carelessness: it may have been 
a just Fate, determined that he should share 
some of the tribulations which he had brought 
on others — but, whatever the cause may have 
been, the fact remains that, on arriving under 
the drawing-room window. Sir Richard called 
out cheerfully, “Mary, are you ready?” 
There was no response: he called again, 
“Mary!” putting his head in at the window 
as he spoke. The vision which met his eyes 
dismayed him: he saw Lady Mary’s head 
turned towards him with a look in which 
reproach and dismay were mingled: he saw 
Mrs. Branson raise her head from her book 
and glance curiously in his direction. The 
world reeled about him: neither his Uncle 
Bob nor England could have desired a more 
poetic revenge: he had fallen, as the Psalm- 
ist long ago trusted that his enemy might 
fall, into the destruction he had made for 
others. There was a ghastly moment during 
which thoughts of flight jostled in his brain 
with visions of a complete confession, and 
then suddenly salvation dawned. A window 
1 120.1 


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UNHOLY 


ALLIANCE 


above was thrown open and a voice said 
in modest tones: 

“Is that you, Sir Richard? did you want 
me?” 

For a moment the dismayed baronet felt 
that the end of the world was upon him: 
then he reahsed with incredulous joy the rope 
which fortune had flung to him. 

“Oh, Miss Montford,” he said, “I was 
wondering if you’d care to come and see the 
stables before we start? I think there’s just 
time.” 

‘ ‘Oh thank you,” said the delighted young 
lady, “I’ll be down in a moment: I simply 
love looking at horses.” 

The window closed. Sir Richard glanced 
into the drawing-room again: Mrs. Rranson 
had resumed her book: of Lady Mary the 
back only was to be seen as she bent over the 
writing-table. Nothing but a sflght heaving 
of the shoulders, as of one struggling with 
some uncontrollable emotion, betrayed the 
crisis that had been passed. 

Miss Montford joined her host and they 
walked off in the direction of the stables. 

“I do hope. Miss Montford,” said Sir 
Richard, “that you didn’t mind my calling 
you by your Christian name: the fact is we 
[ 121 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


all got into the way of it at Eton. Shocking 
bad manners, I’m afraid, hut you know what 
young brutes boys are — and if you won’t 
mind my saying so, I think Mary Montford 
such a pretty name! It just slipped out 
before I knew what I was saying.” 

Miss Montford smiled forgiveness and 
they went on their way. The path was a 
narrow one and Sir Richard stepped aside to 
let her precede him: he mopped his brow 
stealthily. “My word, that was a near 
thing!” he thought to himself, “I begin to 
see what Uncle Bob was driving at!” 


1122 ] 


CHAPTER IX 


RUSSIAN SCANDAL 

Strange fits of passion I have known. 

Wordsworth. 


HE morning’s shoot was an unde- 
niable success. Birds were plen- 
tiful: the Archdeacon justified his 
reputation as a shot: Mr. Walton 
had plenty of shooting and was 
satisfied with his bag: Dick and 
Peter kept the two well sepairated and guarded 
against any possible breaches of the peace, 
but their task was a light one, for Archdeacon 
Montford was in too good a humour to pro- 
voke hostilities. As they drew near to the 
farmhouse where they were to lunch, they ob- 
served with some surprise a motor drawn up 
outside: it had been no part of the programme 
that the ladies should join them, and even 
Dick’s desire for the presence of Diana did not 
prevent him from swearing gently under his 
breath. The absence of strain during the 

[ 123 ] 




THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


last few hours was not a thing to be lightly 
surrendered. Lady Mary came out as they 
arrived. 

“Oh, Dick,” she said, “I do hope you 
won’t mind: it was such a lovely morning 
and we thought it a pity to waste it.” She 
led him aside for a moment. “The fact is,” 
she whispered, ‘ T’ve been simply at my wit’s 
end to keep Mrs. Branson off the poor 
Professor. He’s been so nice and pathetic, 
and he practically threw himself on my 
mercy: do you know, Dick, I’m getting 
quite to like him in spite of his being so 
queer! He’s been talking to me about the 
East, and you know even in his queer broken 
English, it’s quite thrilling! How did you 
come across him.^ You must tell me all 
about him some time.” 

Sir Richard was mollified: after all he felt 
that he owed England a good turn, and 
probably it would be easy to keep the party 
off large topics at luncheon. “All right, 
old girl,” he said, “the only thing is that you 
simply must take on the Archdeacon: I’ll 
tackle Mrs. B., but after a dose of her I feel 
I know what old Tennyson meant when he 
said he wanted ‘the sound of a voice that was 
still . ’ But come on , let’s make the best of it ! ” 

[ 124 ] 


RUSSIAN 


SCANDAL 


The luncheon party justified Sir Richard’s 
optimism: the Archdeacon entertained Lady 
Mary with an account of the morning’s sport: 
Mr. Walton improved his acquaintance with 
Diana, while Ranhy flirted cheerfully with 
Miss Montford. The Professor gazed on 
the company with something approaching 
benevolence. The host, as he had foreseen, 
had the heaviest task, and he felt that he was 
merely receiving the due reward of virtue 
when, after luncheon, he saw Mrs. Branson 
lead Mr. Walton into the farmhouse garden. 
“After all, he’s had an easy morning,” he 
thought, “and it’ll steady him a bit: and 
now for a word or two with Diana.” 

Mrs. Branson’s opening remarks caused 
the brewer no uneasiness. “I think that 
niece of yours is just too sweet to live,” she 
said, “it don’t seem right somehow that a 
young thing like that should have the sorrows 
of the world on her shoulders.” 

It had never occurred to Mr. Walton to 
regard his niece in this light, but he felt that 
there could be no harm in assenting to so 
general a proposition. 

‘ T call it fine the way she looks after that 
little boy,” she went on. Nothing special 
in Mrs. Howard’s dealings with her son had 

[ 125 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


been brought to her uncle’s notice, but he 
agreed that she was an admirable mother. 

“The thought of those two Httle Evelyns 
playing about together fetches me all the 
time,” said Mrs. Branson. Mr. Walton felt 
that he was going deeper and deeper: surely 
Alice could not have been such a fool as to 
give both her children the same name? He 
contented himself with an unintelligible 
murmur. 

“When I think of the shadow of that 
wicked woman thrown across that young life 
I just want to sit down and cry,” continued 
the warm-hearted lady: “it don’t seem 
right that such creatures should hve.” 

The sudden introduction of a new and 
apparently vicious personality into the home 
circle of the Howards was a disagreeable 
surprise to Mr. Walton: he felt that he 
must say something and advanced the prop- 
osition that she might not perhaps be as 
black as she was painted. (‘ T wish to good- 
ness I knew who she was though!” he added 
to himself.) 

Mrs. Branson stopped in the middle of the 
path, which was separated here by a yew 
hedge from the lawn. “There is nothing I 
admire more,” she said with deliberation, 
[ 126 ] 


RUSSIAN 


SCANDAL 


‘ ‘than the chivalrous defence of a weak 
woman by a good man, and I can see, Mr. 
Walton, that you’re a real good man: but 
how she could have done it I do not know.” 

Mr. Walton was more mystified than ever, 
hut he thought himself safe in inquiring to 
which particular part of her conduct Mrs. 
Branson was referring. So desperate a 
character, he reflected, could hardly have 
limited herself to one atrocity. 

“Why, leaving that poor little Evelyn,” 
answered Mrs. Branson. “I tell you it 
makes me feel bad even to think of it. Such 
a cute httle fellow as he looks, tool” 

She drew out her pocket handkerchief and 
blew her nose. Mr. Walton pressed his 
hand to his head: had he taken leave of his 
senses.^ surely a moment ago he had heard 
Mrs. Howard’s care for her hoy extolled as 
a pattern to mothers, and now it appeared 
that he had been shamelessly neglected: by 
whom, if not by his mother.^ “It must he 
the nurse,” he suddenly thought, blaming 
himself for his obtuseness: “Ahce must have 
been complaining about some careless nurse 
they’ve had, and she thinks I know all about 
it.” Satisfied with his solution, he went on 

[ 127 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

boldly: “Yes, it was a very bad business: I 
expect drink was at the bottom of it.” 

Mrs. Branson leapt at the suggestion. 
“And that’s only too probable,” she said, 
* ‘but what Mr. Howard could ever have seen 
in her I’m sure I don’t know.” 

“Oh, I don’t suppose Mr. Howard had 
much to do with the engagement,” he said: 
“his wife probably saw to that.” 

This added detail in the portrait of the 
first Mrs. Howard fitted admirably with Mrs. 
Branson’s conception of her character. 

“Ah, she was a managing woman, I dare- 
say,” she said. “And it must have been a 
relief to him in some ways when she went 
off. But nothing can make a divorce comt 
a very agreeable place, and I’m real sorry for 
poor Mr. Howard. He got his decree easy, 
I take it.i>” 

Mr. Walton made no answer: his com- 
panion glanced at him and saw to her dismay 
that he appeared to be in the incipient stages 
of an apoplectic fit: his face was scarlet and 
his eyes rolled wildly in his head. 

“Say, Mr. Walton,” she cried, “I’d no 
idea you felt that bad about it. I know over 
here you take these things harder than we 
[ 128 ] 


RUSSIAN 


SCANDAL 


do, and Fm not saying you’re not right. I 

oughtn’t to have said a word ” 

Mr. Walton had regained his power of 
speech. “Divorce!” he cried; “I must tell 

you, Mrs. Branson ” 

What revelations the brewer might have 
made will never be exactly known, for at that 
precise moment there came from behind the 
yew hedge the unmistakable groaning of a 
human creature in pain. They both looked 
anxiously through the branches, and could 
make out the form of Professor Lapski 
prostrate on a garden seat. He writhed 
from side to side in agony, and as he writhed 
he uttered the groans which had first attracted 
their attention. By and by the writhing 
ceased and the groans became more articulate. 

“Ah, no, no!” he half sobbed out; “it 
cannot be! have pity on me! I will come, 
I will come! But not now! spare me yet a 
little while! I have been faithless, yes, but 
I will obey: speak, for I hsten.” 

He paused, as though listening to an un- 
seen speaker: the answer apparently came, 
for he went on in more subdued tones: “It 
is good — to-night I will see, to-night I will 
hear! You shall not speak in vain. My 
will, it is yours. I will be the eye, the ear, 
[ 129 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


the peni Lapski, he shall be no more, he 
surrenders himself to your will. To-night, 
to-nighti” The words died away into an 
inarticulate murmur and the Professor’s 
head sank on his breast, though his shoul- 
ders continued to heave in spasmodic jerks. 

His unseen audience were deeply im- 
pressed by what they had heard and seen. 

‘ T guess all we can do is just to leave him,” 
whispered Mrs. Branson; “they do say it’s 
dangerous to rouse them when they’re in the 
power of the spirits.” 

They tiptoed in silence back to the farm: 
as they reached the door, Mrs. Branson 
turned to her companion and said in a tone 
of awe, “Mr. Walton, that is a very remark- 
able young man.” Mr. Walton agreed: he 
had at any rate been rescued from a difficult 
situation, and, though he still bore Lapski a 
grudge for his preternaturally sensitive nose, 
he was incHned to be grateful. 

The “very remarkable young man” list- 
tened to the sound of their retreating foot- 
steps: when they were at a safe distance he 
sat up. “By Jove, that was a near thing!” 
he said to himself; “I don’t know what 
Lady Mary’s been saying, but Uncle Bob 
would have blown the whole concern sky 

[ 130 ] 


RUSSIAN 


SCANDAL 


high in another minute I I think I’ve earned 
a cigarette.” He lit one and smoked it with 
philosophic content, though keeping his ears 
open for any other intrusion upon his soli- 
tude. 

Sir Richard’s hopes for a few quiet min- 
utes with Diana were destined to be frus- 
trated. As he was on his way to her side 
he was buttonholed by the Archdeacon. ‘ ‘I 
should rather like a word with you, Ather- 
ton,” he said, ‘ ‘if you could spare a moment.” 
There was nothing for it but to assent, and 
they strolled out in front of the house. On 
their way they passed Lord Ranby and 
Miss Montford sitting on a garden seat, and 
engaged apparently in intimate conversa- 
tion. 

The Archdeacon gave a slight sniff. ‘ Tt’s 
about that young Ranby,” he said, “I 
wanted to ask you what sort of a fellow he 
is. I’ve met his elder brother several times 
and took quite a fancy to him, but this one 
seems of rather a different type.” 

“Oh, I assure you you’re quite mistaken,” 
said Sir Richard with conviction, “they’re 
far more like than you think — Paul’s one of 
the best of fellows and I’m told he’s doing 
awfully well in the Potteries.” 

[ 131 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

am glad to hear it, very glad,” said the 
Archdeacon gloomily. “I confess that from 
the slight amount of conversation that I have 
had with him I felt some doubt whether he 
took his vocation very seriously. I was 
talking to him of my old friend Canon 
Dawkins, who has been doing a wonderful 
work, a very wonderful work, in that district 
for some years and was surprised to find how 
little he seemed to know of him. I should 
have thought that any young clergyman 
would have been only too glad to learn from 
Dawkins, for with all his quaint ways he is a 
real power for good — a very real power.” 

Sir Richard was rather at a loss for a de- 
fence of his friend’s neglect of Canon Daw- 
kins. “I fancy,” he said, “he’s been kept 
pretty hard at work in his own parish: I’m 
told the men there think the world of him.” 

“I am dehghted to hear it,” said the 
Archdeacon, more gloomily than ever. “I 
am hound to say that I have noticed a cer- 
tain levity, not to say frivolity, in his man- 
ner which would not commend itself to our 
hard-headed men in the North, hut in the 
Potteries no doubt things are different. We 
mustn’t all be of one pattern: it takes all 
[ 132 ] 


RUSSIAN 


SCANDAL 


sorts to make a world!” he ended with a 
cheerless laugh. 

They strolled in silence for a few moments: 
the Archdeacon had a delicate subject to 
broach, and was considering the best method 
to employ. 

“He is singularly Hke his brother in face,” 
he began. 

“A marvellous likeness,” agreed his host 
readily. 

“I can imagine that that must sometimes 
be a temptation to him: I remember, as I 
daresay you do, Atherton, considerable 
trouble which we had with two twin brothers 
at Eton: there was one who was compara- 
tively insensible to pain, and the other was 
a very rapid writer, while their handwritings 
were indistinguishable. It became very 
difficult in that case, I remember, to make 
sure that punishment was adequate, or in- 
deed wholly just — very difficult indeed.” 

Sir Richard had a hvely recollection of the 
pair of brothers and could indeed have added 
details to the picture, but he contented him- 
self with murmuring assent. 

“Now it has occurred to me,” went on the 
Archdeacon, “that this young Ranby may 
also trade occasionally on his likeness to his 
[133] 


THROUGH T H E SHADOWS 


brother ” Sir Richard started: for a 

moment he feared that Peter was detected, 
hut a glance at his companion reassured him. 

“For example, young Lord Ranhy paid 
considerable attention to my daughter Mary 
while she was staying with her aunt this 
summer. I don’t say, of course, that there 
was anything in it, but she certainly saw a 
good deal of him and I thought she liked him. 
Now I think you will see my point. Is it 
not just possible that his younger brother 
may be tempted to trade on his likeness to 
him, and that, without knowing it, we may 
be conniving at an injury to Lord Ranby.^ 
You see what I mean.” 

Sir Richard saw it very clearly — ^perhaps 
more clearly than the Archdeacon entirely 
reahsed. For his daughter to marry Lord 
Ranby was one thing: an engagement with 
his yoimger brother was something very dif- 
ferent: and it was not necessary to credit the 
worthy Archdeacon with none but worldly 
motives: Dick could hardly blame him for 
thinking Peter a peculiar type of clergyman, 
and one hardly likely to shine in his profes- 
sion. It was impossible, for instance, to 
think of him in gaiters — at least in gaiters 
of any colour than the rather aggressively 

[134] 


RUSSIAN SCANDAL 

lay ones which he was wearing at the mo- 
ment. Fortunately the baironet saw for once 
a clear path before him. 

‘ ‘I quite see your point,” he said earnestly, 
“but I can assure you. Archdeacon, that you 
have nothing to fear. Ranby is the soul of 
honour, and I can conceive nothing more un- 
hkely than that he would ever do or say any- 
thing that could by any possibility injure or 
offend his elder brother. You may take that 
as absolutely certain. Still, if you like, I will 
have a word with him: it would be perfectly 
easy for me to give him a hint without any 
chance of his taking offence. And now I 
expect it’s tune that we were off again: I 
hope we shall find birds as plentiful this 
afternoon.” 

They turned towards the house: Dick was 
congratulating himself on the ease (and in- 
deed veracity) with which he had extricated 
himself; but he was destined to be put to a 
severer test. 

“One other thing, Atherton,” said the 
Archdeacon, detaining him, “Mrs. Branson 
has been telling me something of the tragedy 
of your sister’s married life. You will for- 
give my asking you, I know: I admire Mrs. 
Howard, and am grateful for all her kindness 
[ 135 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

to Mary, but this story has come as some- 
thing of a shock to me. I cannot imagine 
how I had never heard it. I suppose I may 
take it from you that Mr. Howard was what 
is technically known as the innocent party?” 

Sir Richard’s heart had nearly stopped 
heating: he had had no chance of learning 
precisely to what extent Lady Mary had 
committed herself: hut he realised with a 
great joy that the form of the Archdeacon’s 
question gave him an easy gambit. 

“You may take it from me,” he said 
slowly and with great emphasis, “you may 
take it from me. Archdeacon, that George 
Howard is as innocent as the babe unborn.” 

The Archdeacon was visibly impressed: 
he murmured a word of thanks, and they 
returned to the farmhouse. 

“Good old Truth,” murmured the baronet 
to himself, “stranger, they say, than Fiction 
— and a jolly sight more convincing! I do 
wish one could tell it oftener!” 

There was still time for a few minutes 
with Diana, and the ardent baronet hastened 
to her side. Miss Branson was dressed — 
well, it is enough perhaps to say that Moly- 
neux of Paris (if indeed Lady Mary was right 
in her conjecture as to the creator of her 
[ 136 ] 


RUSSIAN 


SCANDAL 


evening gown) had found a worthy successor 
in Curtis for the labours of the morning, and 
that, even had the impossible happened and 
his judgment failed. Sir Richard would have 
thought the result delightful. 

“I’ve been trying to get a word with you 
all the morning. Miss Branson,” he said, 
“but the Archdeacon had some business he 
wanted to discuss and I couldn’t get away. 
I do hope you haven’t been bored with this 
rather primitive entertainment!” 

Miss Branson’s voice was clear and sweet. 
Miss Branson’s articulation was perfect: it 
seemed at least to her infatuated host that he 
had never heard his native language so ade- 
quately spoken. 

“I’ve enjoyed myself enormously,” she 
answered, “and I’m so glad to have had the 
chance of a talk with your uncle — what an 
old dear he is!” 

Sir Richard agreed heartily, as he would 
indeed have assented to a far more disputable 
proposition. 

“It’s wonderful how he keeps his spirits 
up,” went on Miss Branson; “I’m afraid 
from what m amm a tells me he must have had 
a very hard time in India.” 

Sir Richard was uncertain to what dis- 
1137] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


asters his uncle might have confessed, but he 
assented to the proposition in the vague form 
that he was “a very fine old boy.” 

“Mr. Ranby told me last night,” con- 
tinued Miss Branson, “that he didn’t seem 
to hke talking about India, but he didn’t 
know why. I hope nothing very sad hap- 
pened to him out there Of course I was 
very careful to keep off the subject, but 
sometimes at dinner when I was looking 
at him I thought his face looked so anxious 
and sad: I couldn’t help feefing sorry for 
him.” 

Sir Richard was able to guess at some of the 
causes of his uncle’s distress, but was in no 
position to reveal them. 

“Yes, poor old Uncle Bob,” he answered 
shamelessly, “I’m afraid he’s had a very 
rough time: I only wish we could do any- 
thing to cheer him up.” 

“I’m afraid he must feel dreadfully lone- 
ly,” went on Miss Branson, whose mother 
had dwelt feelingly to her on Mr. Walton’s 
childless condition. “It’s a real tragedy, 
for any one can see what an affectionate 
nature he’s got.” 

Sir Richard gave a slight gasp. “Good 
Lord,” he thought to himself. “What on 

[138] 


RUSSIAN 


SCANDAL 


earth can Uncle Bob have been telling herP” 

“Yes, it’s a bad business,” he murmured 
vaguely in reply. 

The conversation was not developing as he 
had hoped, and it seemed necessary to bring 
it to a close. 

“I should like to have a talk with you 
about it all,” he went on, “and we must get 
some time this evening. But I’m afraid the 
Archdeacon will be getting restive if we don’t 
get off again. I must take you back to 
Alice: I do hope she’s looking after you 
properly? ” 

“I think she’s dehghtful,” said Miss 
Branson with emphasis, “and I’ve been so 
enjoying a talk with that queer old Professor. 
But do you know. Sir Richard, I sometimes 
wonder if he’s quite what he pretends to be I 
I do wish you’d tell me some more about 
him?” 

They had been strolling beside the yew 
hedge and a glimpse of Lapski on the seat 
gave the harassed baronet an excuse for 
retreat. 

“Look out,” he whispered, “I believe he’s 
there! We must have a talk when I get 
back from shooting: you will give me a 
chance, won’t you?” 

[1391 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


Miss Branson smiled assent, and they re- 
joined the rest of the party. Sir Richard’s 
meditations were of a mixed character. 
“She’s a deuced smart girl,” he said to him- 
self with a chuckle, “I’m not sure I can keep 
it up with her much longer, and I’m sure I 
don’t want to! But what on earth can old 
Uncle Bob have been saying? What can 
she mean by saying he’s so lonely? He 
can’t have told her he’s divorced Aunt 
Ehzabeth! No, that was Mary — and surely 
thay can’t both have said it.” And it was 
with a brow deeply puckered by thought that 
he led out the shooters for their afternoon’s 
amusement. 


1140 ] 


CHAPTER X 


FRESH ARRIVALS 
Greet the unseen with a cheer. 

Browning. 

HE afternoon passed off without 
incident. On the way back to the 
house Sir Richard paired off with 
Ranhy: he felt it safe to leave the 
Archdeacon and Mr. Walton to- 
gether for they had discovered a 
surprising unanimity of sentiment on the 
subject of the vagaries of the extreme High 
Churchmen — a subject which seemed likely 
to last them well back to the Manor. 

He described to Peter, with considerable 
picturesqueness of detail, his conversation 
with the Archdeacon after luncheon. 

“You’ll have to look out, old boy,” he 
ended, “or you’ll be cutting yourself out: 
the only decent thing for you to do is to sing 
your own praises. I never saw a case before 
where the only unselfish thing for a man to 
do was to exalt himself at the expense of his 

[ 141 ] 




THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


own twin brother. It’s a new discovery in 
morality and you’ll be the crucial case quoted 
in all the text-books on moral philosophy!” 

He was grieved to find that his humour 
found no response in Peter. That young 
gentleman walked on for some distance in 
silence and then he bm*st out: 

“Look here, Dick! I’m jolly well fed 
up with this business! It’s all very well for 
you to talk, but it’s a bit thick to have to sit 
with your best girl and talk to her all the time 
about some one else. I’ve cracked up Peter 
Ranby till I tell you I’m absolutely sick of 
the subject, and the worst of it is I’m not at 
all sure she isn’t getting sick of it too. Do 
you know, Dick, I’m not at all sure she isn’t 
getting a bit fond of me now! She seems to 
want to talk a lot about the work in my 
parish, and I’m at my wits’ end to know what 
to tell her. I can’t see why one’s brothers 
can’t keep one a bit better posted up in all the 
things they do: I’m sure I’ve said things 
about the Mothers’ Union and the Young 
Wives’ Fellowship that would make ’em turn 
in their graves. And then where shall I be 
when she finds it isn’t me — or rather I mean 
when she finds it is me only I’ve been saying 
[1421 


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ARRIVALS 


it wasn’t? I’ve a good mind to own up 
straight away.” 

Sir Richard was wise enough not to urge 
the inconvenience to himself which might 
result from premature disclosure: after all, 
he was not responsible for Peter’s assumption 
of his brother’s personality, and it was a 
rehef to contemplate an imbrogho which 
wasn’t of his own contriving. 

“I quite see, old man,” he said, “and I 
wouldn’t dream of asking you to go on with 
it to please me, but what about the Arch- 
deacon? He won’t enjoy thinking he’s been 
made a fool of. I can’t help hoping that if 
you wait a bit something will turn up.” 

‘ ‘Oh, something will turn up right enough,” 
retorted Peter; “the only question is, what? 
I’m afraid the whole blessed concern will be 
given away and then we shall all look a set 
of prize idiots.” 

“Of comse there’s no denying it’s risky,” 
answered his friend, ‘ ‘and I want you to play 
your own game just as you think best: all I 
ask is that you won’t give anything away 
without telhng me: we’re much more likely 
to pull the thing off if we stick together.” 

“Right you are, old man,” said Lord 
Ranhy , ‘ ‘that’s a bargain, but, mind you. I’m 

[ 143 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


pretty near breaking point, and another 
course of talk about old Dawkins will just 
finish me.” 

They dropped the subject and discussed the 
day’s sport till they reached home, which they 
did rather in advance of the other couple. 
Wilson came out to meet them with a 
telegram. 

“This has just come for you, sir,” he said, 
handing it to Ranby. 

He read it, and his jaw dropped. 

“Any answer, sir?” asked Wilson. 

“No, no answer,” said Lord Ranby, and 
he handed it to his host; ‘ T wish to heaven 
there was,” he added under his breath. 

Sir Richard read it: 

Ranhy, Manor, Drayworth. As no answer to 
letter coming self arriving 6.52 Drayworth tell 
Dick. — Ranby. 

Sir Richard whistled: “My word!” he 
said, “that’s a facer! What does it mean, 
Peter?” 

“Mean?” said Peter; “well, it means the 
game’s up: any one could see that.” 

“Rut why’s Paul coming? I suppose it 
is Paul?” 

“Oh, it’s Paul right enough, but what he’s 

[ 144 ] 


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ARRIVALS 


coming for I haven’t the least idea. You 
see I’d been away from home for a day or two 
before I came here, and when I did this quick- 
change business it struck me that if I had 
letters forwarded it would give the whole 
show away, so I wired to stop them. And 
now all I can suppose is that old Paul wants 
to see me about something special, and as I 
didn’t answer he must have telephoned home 
and got my address — and there you are! 
And here he’ll be before you know where you 
are either,” he ended lugubriously. 

Sir Richard meditated for a moment. 

‘ ‘Well of course, you might simply exchange 
parts without saying anything about it,” 
he said, “We should have to meet old 
Paul at the station and give him the tip, but 
I don’t see why it shouldn’t work.” 

Ranby shook his head. 

“No, old man,” he answered, “I thought 
of that, but I don’t think it’d do. To begin 
with, it brings in another complication, and 
heaven knows we’ve had enough of them 
already. I’m sick of play-acting and I can’t 
take on another part now, even if it’s only 
pretending to be myself. My nerves are all 
upset anyhow as it is, and I should be sure to 
give the whole show away. And then I don’t 

[ 145 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


think it’s quite fair on Mary — Miss Mont- 
ford, I mean. You see, if she’s getting to 
like me at all she won’t like to drop me, that’s 
Paul, I mean, however nice I am myself — 
you see what I mean? And besides, she’s 
quite likely to spot there’s some hanky-panky 
and then where should I be? No, old man, 
you take my word for it, that cock won’t 
fight!” 

There was a pause. “Well, what about 
it?” he asked, as Sir Richard did not speak. 

“It’s what Sherlock used to call a three- 
pipe problem,” said his host, ‘ ‘but we haven’t 
got time for that. Let’s see, it’s about five 
now, and we’ve got a good hoin*. You go 
up and have a bath, old man, and then we’ll 
have a council of war in the smoking-room. 
It’s a mercy the Archdeacon doesn’t smoke! 
Trust your Uncle Richard!” he added, 
clapping Peter on the shoulder. 

“Uncle me no uncles!” said Lord 
Ranby, shaking himself free. “You’ll have 
enough to do with looking after your own 
uncle from what I can see,” he added, and 
with this Parthian shot he vanished into the 
house. 

Sir Richard looked in the direction which 
Peter had indicated: there was no mistake 
I 146 ] 


FRESH 


ARRIVALS 


about it: his uncle was bearing down on him 
in a towering rage. What could have 
happened? Surely the Archdeacon couldn’t 
have suddenly developed ritualistic ten- 
dencies? Had the conversation got out of 
hand and slipped back to India or to drink? 
He braced himself for the worst. It was not 
long in coming. 

“Look here, Dick,” cried his exasperated 
uncle, “this has got to end now! I told you 
I’d stand it for a few hours more and I’ve 
done it, but this is more than flesh and blood 
can bear. What’s all this infernal nonsense 
about a divorce? Who’s divorced who? 
Or are the people all mad? There was Mrs. 
Branson after luncheon took me aside and 
treated me to a lot of drivel about what a 
wonderful woman Alice was, and then she 
suddenly got off on to some story about a 
drunken nurse with whom George seemed to 
have got entangled — and she had the in- 
fernal impudence to ask me if he got a decree! 
I teU you I was just going to give her a piece 
of my mind when suddenly we heard that 
Professor of yours in some kind of a fit behind 
the hedge” (“Good old Smiler,” thought 
Dick with a pang of gratitude) “yarning 
away to his spirits or something. So we 
[ 147 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

cleared out, and I’ve given Mrs. B. a pretty 
wide berth since, I can tell you. 

“And that’s not all of it. I’d been having 
quite a sensible talk with Montford about 
those ritualists — he’s not quite such a fool 
as he looks. I’m bound to say — and then just 
as we were getting near the house he sud- 
denly said how sad it was about George, and 
how you’d told him that he was the innocent 
party, and what a relief that was to his mind. 
I was just speechless, and perhaps that was as 
well — and we were quite close home, so it 
didn’t matter. But look here, young man, 
I’ve had enough mystery to last me my Hfe- 
time and I insist on knowing where I am. 
What’s all this story about a divorce.^ I’ve 
known George Howard since he was a child, 
and he’d have a fit at the idea! And a 
drunken nurse too! What’s this new lie 
you’ve been starting.^ I’m bound to tell you 
I think it’s very poor taste. It’s bad enough 
filhng the house with a lot of play-actors 
without dragging your sister’s name into the 
divorce court.” 

Sir Richard’s new discovery of the value 
of truth was to stand him in good stead. 

“I promise you. Uncle Bob,” he said, 
“I’ve had nothing to do with it. It was an 

[ 148 ] 


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ARRIVALS 


awful shock to me when the Archdeacon 
suddenly said he supposed George was 
innocent. I thought the best thing I could 
do was just to give him a clean bill of health 
and wait and ask Alice. I’m just as puzzled 
as you are about it. I haven’t had a moment 
to see her yet, but I’ll tell you as soon as I 
hear.” 

Mr. Walton could not but be moved by 
his nephew’s genuine air of bewilderment. 

“Well, the moral of the whole thing is 
that it’s got to stop,” he said, “and really I 
think the best thing I can do is to go straight 
back to London. I’m not as young as I was, 
and this kind of thing takes it out of me. I’m 
very grateful to you, Dick, and all that, and 
we’ve had a jolly day’s sport, and I should 
have liked some more, but it’s simply not 
good enough. I’ll wire to your aunt to- 
night and go off the first thing to-morrow 
morning.” 

“Oh, look here. Uncle Bob,” said his 
nephew, ‘ ‘I can’t have you driven out of the 
house like this, especially when I feel it’s all 
my stupid fault. Besides, you simply can’t 
go. I’ve got a little surprise for you. I 
thought we should want some more guns and 
so I wired to Geoffrey and Walter and they’re 
[1491 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


coming here to-night: they get down by 
the 6.52. I didn’t mean to tell you, for I 
thought it would be a joke to spring your sons 
on you at dinner. But you see you’ll just 
have to stay now!” 

The effect of this communication was sur- 
prising. Sir Richard knew how fond his 
uncle was of his two sons, and expected some 
demonstration of pleasure: instead he saw 
all the colour fade slowly out of Mr. Walton’s 
face and something like a shudder run 
through his frame. 

“What’s the matter. Uncle Bob.^” he 
cried; ‘ ‘you aren’t ill, are you.^ ” 

“Good Lord,” responded his uncle slowly, 
“well, you have done it now and no mistake! 
I told her I hadn’t got any!” 

“Any what.^ Told who.^” inquired Sir 
Richard, thinking his uncle had taken leave 
of his senses. 

“Mrs. Branson,” replied the long-suffer- 
ing man. “I told her I was childless: I 
said it was our great sorrow. I did it for the 
best, Heaven knows, but what can we do 
now.^” 

Sir Richard gave vent to a prolonged 
whistle. ‘ ‘So that’s what Diana meant when 
[1501 


FRESH 


ARRIVALS 


she said you were so lonely! I thought you’d 
been saying you’d divorced Aunt Ehzabeth.” 

“What!” shouted the outraged hrewer; 
“damn it all, Dick, this is getting beyond a 
joke! “I’m not going to have your aunt 
dragged into this infernal tomfoolery!” 

“No, no, I promise you, Uncle Bob,” said 
his nephew reassuringly. “I’ve never even 
mentioned her name, but Miss Branson said 
you were so lonely and I didn’t know then 
you’d said you hadn’t any children, so I 
thought ” 

“I don’t care what you thought,” an- 
swered Mr. Walton, “the point is I’ve said 
I hadn’t any children and they’re both com- 
ing here in a couple of hours. What on 
earth can we do?” 

The appalling nature of the difficulty was 
gradually dawning on Sir Bichard, and for a 
moment even his optimism was smitten into 
silence: but he was the first to null himself 
together. 

“Well, look here. Uncle Bob,” he said, 

‘ ‘things are never as bad as they look before- 
hand. Something’s safe to turn up. You 
go up and have a bath and then we’ll have a 
regular council of war in the smoking-room.” 

He watched his uncle, a stricken man, 
[ 151 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


walk slowly towards the house and turned 
away hiunming a verse of 

Malbrouck’ s’en va-t-en guerre. 

‘ ‘Yes, I’ve no doubt he did,” he said to him- 
self, ‘ ‘but he never went to war with a staff 
consisting of two non-existent cousins, a dis- 
guised peer, an undisguised curate, a con- 
cealed cousin, a sham Professor, and a 
partially converted uncle. However, ‘Eng- 
land expects . . .,’ and that reminds me, 
what does England expect? I’d better go 
and have a look for him: he’s more likely 
to have an idea than any one else,” and he too 
vanished into the house. 

He encountered the Professor in the hall. 

“Come up to my room, Smiler,” he 
whispered as he went by, “it’s the safest 
place for a talk.” 

England followed him after a discreet 
interval: he locked the door behind him 
and relapsed, if not into cheerfulness, at 
least into a more normal shade of gloom. 
The bauronet’s opening words were not en- 
couraging. 

“We’re for it, old man,” he said, “serve 
out the tot of rum, keep your eye on zero, and 
all that! The fat’s fairly in the fire now. I 
[ 152 ] 


FRESH 


ARRIVALS 


didn’t tell you, but I’ve asked Geoffrey and 
Walter to come down to-night: I didn’t tell 
old Uncle Bob: I thought it would be a nice 
surprise for him: present for a good old boy 
and that sort of thing — and now it appears 
that the poor old chap has gone and sworn 
black and blue to Mrs. Branson that he’s got 
no children and never had any. I can’t 
think what made him raise the subject at all; 
downright indelicate, I call it! Anyhow 
they’re both coming to-night — Drayworth 
arr. 6.52, as old Bradshaw puts it in his 
nervous style. What do you make of that 
for a problem.^ I wish some of those 
Johnnies who crack up the country as a sort 
of rest-cure would try it for a bit: I’ve never 
been so hunted as I have to-day.” 

England was filling his pipe as he hstened. 

“You can’t have ’em up here,” he said, 
“that’s perfectly clear: I saw your uncle 
come through the hall just now and he’s a 
stricken man, Dick; another shock would 
knock him clean off his perch. Has he had 
anything else to worry him.^” 

“Yes, he’s got some yarn about George 
Howard running off with a drunken nurse 
that the Archdeacon’s been telling him: I 
haven’t had time to go into it, but he was fear- 
[1531 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


fully upset, and I had to say I’d look into it 
and try and clear matters up. It’ll be a 
lesson to old George not to let his children 
catch measles! If Alice had been eible to 
come half the battle would have been saved — 
but then we shouldn’t have had Mary here, 
and I must say she’s done gallantly.” 

“I think Mrs. Branson was at your uncle 
about the divorce too,” said the captain: “I 
heard them at it in the garden after luncheon 
and thought he was a bit hard pressed, so I 
made a bit of a diversion.” 

“I heard about that,” said Sir Richard; 
“Uncle Bob was jolly grateful, and so’d 
Mary be if she knew.” 

‘ ‘Now drop that, old man,” said his friend. 
‘ ‘I’ve told you she’s got not to know and that’s 
the end of it. How’s Ranby getting on.^” 
“By George, I’d almost forgotten,” said 
Sir Richard, ‘ ‘that’s another pretty httle com- 
phcation. He’s had a wire from Paul to say 
he’s coming by the 6.52 too: I can’t think 
why, nor can he. Jolly slack life these parsons 
seem to have,” he went on; “fancy getting 
off on a Tuesday just as if it was a hohday. 
However, he’s coming by the same train as 
the Waltons,” he went on, with constitutional 
readiness to look on the bright side of things, 
[ 154 ] 


FRESH 


ARRIVALS 


“so the same car can meet them all. One’s 
jolly well got to be thankful for small mercies 
in a situation Hke this.” 

‘ ‘But what are you going to do with them 
all when they do come.^” asked Captain 
England: “you can’t have any of them here 
without a complete give-away.” 

“Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you,” 
said the baronet; ‘ ‘the first thing to do is to 
stow them out of the way somewhere: we 
can’t take them on as footmen, I suppose.^ 
It’d be overdoing it a bit to run in three extra 
footmen; besides, Paul would be bound to be 
spotted, and Geoffrey’s jolly like his father if 
it comes to that. Besides, I don’t suppose 
they’d have hked it either and the servants 
would think it a bit funny. No, that’s not a 
good idea, I grant you. You try your hand 
old man!” 

England pondered deeply. “I suppose 
you could put them up in the stables,” he said 
at last. “Brady’s a sensible chap and can 
hold his tongue, and if he goes and meets 
them he could stow them in there without 
any one knowing. You’ll have to tell him 
some yarn or other about a surprise for their 
relations to-morrow, or something like that. 
He’ll think it’s just a practical joke. But I 
1155] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


don’t see how you can keep it up beyond 
to-night. Besides, I’ve more or less let my- 
self in for giving a kind of spiritualistic 
seance to-night: it was the only way I could 
think of for rescuing your uncle, so every- 
thing seems to point to our winding up the 
company as soon as we can. Assets nil — 
liabilities pretty considerable, that’s what it 
looks like to me.” 

“Oh come, take a cheerful view!” said 
Sir Richard; ‘ ‘there’s all sorts of things may 
happen before to-morrow. Not but what 
it’s a damned close-run thing, as the Duke 
said of the Battle of Waterloo — and talking 
about battles reminds me that I’ve told 
Uncle Bob and Ranby that we’d have a 
council of war in the smoking-room as soon 
as they’d changed. You must come to it, 
Smiler; and I’ll tell you what,” he went on, 
“it’d make things easier by a long chalk if 
you’d let me tell them who you are. It’s like 
a sum in four dimensions as it is, and it takes 
such a deuce of a time to get anything done 
when you have to talk like a half-baked 
Caucasian — no offence, old chap, you do it 
Al, but you know what I mean.” 

“All right,” said England, “I daresay it 
would be best: I don’t mind your giving 
[ 156 ] 


FRESH 


ARRIVALS 


me away to Walton and Ranby, but just re- 
member, not a word to Lady Mary!” 

Sir Richard would have preferred to have 
all the mystery cleared away at once, but he 
was too wise to press his advantage further. 

‘ ‘Right you are,” he said; ‘ ‘it’s a bit rough 
on her, but after all, I owe her one for getting 
my brother-in-law into the Divorce Court!” 

The two confederates descended the stairs 
together. 


[ 157 ] 


CHAPTER XI 


A COUNCIL OF WAR 

The combat thickens. On, ye bravel 

Campbell. 


HEN they entered the smoking-room 
they found Mr. Walton and Lord 
Ranby sitting side by side on the 
sofa, engaged in intimate but 
rather gloomy conversation. On 
seeing Lapski, they hurriedly re- 
treated to opposite ends of the sofa. 

“Aha! Messieurs les conspirateurs! je 
vous y prend!” cried Sir Richard gaily. 
“No offence, Uncle Rob, I only wanted to 
show off my knowledge of Napoleonic 
history: my special subject at Oxford, you 
know!” 

The other two looked at him blankly: had 
their host and ally taken leave of his senses.^ 
If not, why expose them to a stranger And 
why, in the name of all that was reasonable, 
why introduce Lapski — Lapski the spy, the 
man of mystery, whose penetrating eye they 
had more reason than ever to fear — why 
[ 158 ] 



A COUNCIL OF WAR 

introduce him to the scene of their most secret 
discussion? 

Sir Richard hastened to undeceive them. 

“Uncle Bob,” he said, “I owe you both 
an apology. I know you’ve had some bad- 
dish moments from our friend here, but I 
want to explain it was my fault and not his. 
Lapski isn’t half as black as he’s painted. In 
fact, if he were to take off that wig, you’d see 
his close-cropped sunny curls mantling over 
his massy brow like a young Adonis. He 
had a reddish moustache too, but he’s sacri- 
ficed that to the call of duty. ‘Duty before 
decency,’ as the chap said in Midshipman 
Easy, that’s Smiler’s motto — but it was a 
rotten bad moustache, wasn’t it?” he added 
in a parenthesis. ‘ ‘The fact is, my lords and 
gentlemen, I will no longer delay to present 
to you my trusty comrade and old-time play- 
mate, Captain England, D.S.O., my well- 
tried friend, secretary, and political agent!” 

As he spoke he seized Lapski’s hair and 
with a well-directed jerk removed the wig: 
England took off his spectacles and stood 
before them his normal self, though the black 
frock-coat of the Professor sat quaintly on 
his soldierly figure. 

‘ ‘I’m afraid I owe you an apology too, Mr. 

[ 159 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


Walton,” he said; “it’s quite true, the whole 
thing was Dick’s idea, and I had to Hve up to 
my part, but I’m afraid I was just a little 
indiscreet about beer! All I can say for my- 
self is that I did my best to help you with 
those dromedaries last night; and this after- 
noon, too, when you seemed to be having a 
roughish time with Mrs. Branson in the 
garden ” 

The brewer had followed the revelation 
with staring eyes. Dick’s impudence had at 
first annoyed him, and his feelings towards 
Lapski had not ever, as we know, been 
cordial, but as the immensity of the decep- 
tion dawned on him he saw its humorous 
side. England’s apology completed the con- 
quest: he owned that he had twice had real 
reason to be grateful, and after all, if he had 
been deceived, he had not suffered as severely 
as others. He magnanimously extended his 
hand. 

“Well, sir,” he said, “I must congratulate 
you on a very clever performance: my young 
nephew seems to have the habit of getting 
people into awkward situations. I only hope 
that you and he will be able to show as much 
skill in getting us out. For there’s no deny- 
ing we’re in a mess now, and I for one don’t 
[ 160 ] 


A 


COUNCIL 


O F 


WAR 


see any prospect of escape — nor, I think I’m 
right in saying, does Lord Ranby — we were 
talking it over when you came in, and we 
were both of us absolutely beaten by it.” 

“Oh come, Mr. Walton,” said Lord 
Ranby, “I don’t think things are quite as 
bad as that! After all, when we were talking 
about it just now, we didn’t know who 
Professor Lapski was, — and he’s an un- 
common good card.” 

“I’m not disparaging Captain England’s 
merits as an actor,” said Mr. Walton, ‘ ‘I’ve 
good reason to appreciate them: I don’t 
deny he’s a good card: what I say is that 
he’s the only one we’ve got.” 

“Well, the moral of that is that we must 
play him for all he’s worth,” said Sir Richard; 
“but I don’t agree with your view that we 
have no others. Let’s see whom we’ve got 
that we can depend on. There are four of 
us to start with,” he began, ‘ ‘and three more 
coming to-night — Paul, Geoffrey, and Wal- 
ter.” 

“Oh come,” objected Mr. Walton, “aren’t 
you rather mixing up your assets with your 
liabilities.^ And that’s a short cut to the 
criminal dock. I don’t deny that Mr. Ranby 
may conceivably be of some use to his 
[ 161 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


brother, but what earthly help my two 
sons can be to me I confess I don’t see. I 
never understood before what was meant 
by advertising for a man ‘without encum- 
brances,’ but I think I know now.” 

“Oh well. Uncle Bob, I was only just 
looking at all the cards in our hand: I didn’t 
say they were all good ones.” 

‘ ‘I think you’d do better with a singleton 
in that particular suit,” retorted his uncle 
grimly. 

“Well then, what about the ladies.^” went 
on his nephew. 

“Miss Montford would be all right. I’m 
sure,” said Lord Ranby, blushing shghtly; 
“what do you say to my having it all out 
with her.^ I know she’d play up for all she’s 
worth.” 

“I’m sure she would, old man,” said Sir 
Richard, ‘ ‘but it might be bad luck if she had 
to take a hand against the Archdeacon, and 
I’m afraid he must be counted as the enemy.” 

No one ventured to question this proposi- 
tion, and it cannot be denied that the light of 
battle rose to the eyes of Mr. Walton and 
Lord Ranby. “I don’t think we ought to 
count her as yet.” 

[ 162 ] 


A 


COUNCIL OF WAR 


“Well, of course, there’s Alice,” said her 
uncle. 

“Ye-e-s, Ahce, of course,” assented Sir 
Richard, “but it might be a bit awkward 
for her too — especially as she’s the hostess: 
we’d better leave her out too for the present.” 

There was a pause: no one Hked to intro- 
duce the delicate topic of the Branson family. 
England decided to bell the cat. 

“I think we’ve got to face the fact, Dick, 
that Mrs. Branson is the real difficulty: 
what we’ve got to do is to keep her in the 
dark. We might manage it for to-night, with 
luck, though it will take some doing, but I 
own I can’t see how we can any of us keep it 
up longer. The real question is, is that long 
enough?” 

Sir Richard was a man of courage and 
decision. 

“What’s the time?” said he; “5.30? 
Well, we’ll put dinner at 8.30, that’ll give us 
three clear hours. I can easily say that the 
Professor’s tired and wants as long a rest as 
possible before to-night’s seance. I’ll tell 
Mrs. B. he’s going to do his best to get into 
touch with the late-lamented Branson and 
doesn’t want to waste his physical powers 
too soon. In fact, Smiler, old man,” he 
[1631 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

went on, “I shouldn’t wonder if it would be 
a good plan if you were to have dinner up- 
stairs: we’re eight without you, so that’ll be 
all right. And it’ll give you more time for 
arranging your spooks and things. I haven’t 
the least idea what you’re going to do or how 
you’re going to do it, but I leave it in your 
hands with perfect confidence. We’ll have 
a short dinner, and be ready for the lonely 
heath and the witches and the limelight by 
about 9.30. Now I’ll go and see Brady and 
teU him to meet the train and bestow our 
young friends in the stables, and then take 
an hour or two for what we used to call 
Urgent Private Affairs in the Army, when one 
was trying to screw out some extra leave. 
You just put your heads together and make 
up the best plan you can, and Peter shall 
come and see me when I’m dressing and tell 
me my cues. But you’ll remember what a 
duffer I am and don’t put me down for too 
big a part: ‘confused noise without’ and 
that sort of thing I can do with the best, but 
when it comes to being one’s own long-lost 
brother, well, I leave that to you, Peter, or 
Uncle Bob perhaps, after all the practice he’s 
had.” 

So saying, the cheerful young baronet left 

1164] 


A COUNCIL OF WAR 

the room. The others, though a little in- 
clined to resent his desertion, could not deny 
that he had made out a plausible case, and, 
after all, Dick was a man of action rather 
than of counsel. 

The problem was not a simple one. The 
main difficulty was to estabhsh Lapski’s 
reputation on so secure a footing that any 
suggestions he might make were likely to he 
received as authoritative. A secondary diffi- 
culty was to remove Mrs. Branson from the 
scene of action before the time came for the 
inevitable revelations. The Archdeacon was 
a problem by himself, but, as Ranby gener- 
ously recognised, one of a less pressing 
nature. Still, even with that admission, 
enough remained to give the three con- 
spirators ample food for thought. 

It was agreed on all hands, as has been 
said, that to establish confidence in the mind 
of Mrs. Branson was the essential prelimin- 
ary. Any lingering doubts remaining there 
might prove fatal to Dick’s prospects. 

‘T think I could tackle her all right by 
herself,” said England, “but the Arch- 
deacon’s a harder problem, and if he’s sus- 
picious he may spoil the whole game: he’s 
got a nasty suspicious nature too. I re- 
[ 165 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

member his making me take off my great-coat 
in early school because he wanted to be sure 
I was properly dressed.” 

“And what had you got on.^” asked Peter 
with undisguised interest. 

“Not much,” said the Captain grimly; 
“but that’s not the point; the question is, 
how we’re to convince him now.” 

“Well, he won’t be much impressed by 
anything I say,” said Peter. “I never knew 
these old Church dignitaries were so down 
on curates! I understand what they mean 
by calling them ‘the inferior clergy.’ Why, 
he looks down his nose at me the whole 
blessed time! And he wouldn’t beheve me 
if I said I saw old Branson as large as life.” 

“No, you aren’t much use there, I’m 
afraid,” said England; “Dick’s a little bet- 
ter, but not much. Mr. Walton’s the only 
person who can really help us. You see, no 
one’s got any suspicion of him, and what he 
says goes.” 

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Mr. Wal- 
ton; “I’m afraid my reputation’s a little 
blown upon with the Archdeacon.” 

“Oh, not seriously,” said Peter; “and if 
we can give him a little more circumstantial 
evidence he’ll never dream of doubting you.” 

[ 166 ] 


A COUNCIL OF WAR 


The brewer looked at him a little doubt- 
fully: he distrusted Lord Ranby as a manu- 
factmer of circumstantial evidence, and fore- 
saw trouble ahead: he could not deny that 
his theoretical respectability was an asset to 
the conspiracy, but he disliked the idea of 
being made the pivot on which the plot was 
to turn, nor did he see how the result could 
be achieved. 

But it was not for nothing that England 
had pitted his brains for two years of cap- 
tivity against those of his Turkish gaolers: 
it was not long before he had laid before them 
the rudiments of a plan, and an hour’s ani- 
mated discussion clothed the dry bones with 
life. By half-past six a scheme had been 
evolved to which Mr. Walton, though with 
many searchings of the heart and some 
shaking of the head, was prepared to give 
in his adhesion. 

“It’s a very risky business,” said he, “and 
I’m afraid you’re expecting too much of me. 
I’m no actor, and until I came here yesterday 
I never expected to find myself attempting 
it, but I have confidence in Captain England, 
and the plan’s just worth trying. There’s 
one thing to be thankful for, and that is that 

[ 167 ] 


'i 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

my wife isn’t here: if she knew ” and 

the poor man was lost in thoughts of gloom. 

Lord Ranby was deep in a book he had 
just picked up. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. 
Walton,” he said, ‘ ‘it mightn’t be a bad plan 
if we mugged up a little about that place of 
yours — Masuhpatam, I mean. Then we 
could do a star turn together and turn the 
tables on the Archdeacon. Look here, this 
is what Chambers's Encyclopaedia says about 
the place — 

** Masulipatam , — A maritime district of Brit- 
ish India in the presidency of Madras, having 
the river Kistnah for its S.W. boundary. Area 
5000 square miles, population 520,866. The 
commercial crops are chay-root, indigo, tobacco, 
and cotton. 

“Why, that’s enough, properly used, to last 
us for a couple of nights! I wonder what 
the chay-root is, though Anyhow, old 
Montford’s safe not to know.” 

Mr. Walton did not receive the suggestion 
with favour: he had hoped that he had 
heard the last of his Indian career; he feared 
Ranby slightly as an ally, and it was with 
reluctant hands that he accepted the gift of 
the Encyclopaedia. He doubted his ^ility 
[1681 


1 


A 


COUNCIL OF W AR 


to improvise on the subject of the chay-root, 
and felt doubtful of the accuracy of his 
memory for figures. 

At this point it was proposed by Peter, and 
carried by a majority of one, that he should 
be given carte blanche to reveal his identity 
to Miss Montford. 

“It can’t do any harm” he urged, “and 
it may do good: I won’t let her in for doing 
anything against her father — and dash it all, 
I think I deserve a little consideration!” 

Mr. Walton demurred to the scheme as 
dangerous, but contented himself with re- 
cording his dissent. 

Peter lost no time in seeking out Miss 
Montford: it may be that the sight of Sir 
Richard and Miss Branson, whom he had 
discerned through the window, stroUing on 
the tennis court, had aroused his jealousy and 
kindled his imagination. Be that as it may, 
it was not long before Miss Montford also 
had consented to face the evening air, and 
was being piloted by Peter to the opposite 
side of the garden. 

It may hot unjustly be complained by the 
feminine reader that no attempt has been 
made to do justice to the personal charms of 
either of these young ladies: we have been 
[ 169 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


asked, she may urge, to take their merits 
entirely on trust. It is clear that they were 
attractive in the eyes of two susceptible young 
gentlemen, but have we not the right to form 
an opinion of our own? Have we not the 
right to know what Diana wore? To learn 
the coloiu’ of the eyes into which Sir Richard 
was at the moment gazing? And Miss 
Montford’s qualities — are they to be guessed 
by an intensive study of those of the Arch- 
deacon? 

To these questions only one answer can be 
given, and it is not so feeble a one as might be 
feared. It is, or should be, enough for us 
to know that neither Sir Richard nor Lord 
Ranby saw anything to criticise in the char- 
acter, intelligence, personal appearance, or 
dress of either of the young ladies concerned. 
They may have been mistaken, for love is 
blind. But if so, who would wish to mock 
at their illusions? It is safer to assume that 
they were right, and to look for the proof in 
the future rather than in the present. 

This narrative is not a love story, save in 
so far as love (which moves the heaven and 
all the stars) had provided the ultimate mo- 
tive power leading to the difficulties of the 
moment, and as we have passed lightly over 
[1701 


A COUNCIL OF WAR 


the attractions of its heroines, so shall we skim 
with equally rapid passage over the love- 
making of its heroes. It is enough to say 
that neither of them failed to make good use 
of his opportunity, and that when the com- 
pany assembled for dinner — with the excep- 
tion of Professor Lapski, who was understood 
to be resting — there were four pairs of eyes 
which shone with more than their customary 
light. Mrs. Branson’s eyes reflected her 
ardent anticipation of the evening’s revela- 
tions. Mr. Walton’s eyes did not shine, but 
he was conscious of a not unpleasurable 
thrill of excitement. The Archdeacon’s eyes 
did not shine either: had the fact been 
pointed out to him, he would no doubt have 
classed such a phenomenon with the light 
of those illegal candles which he and Mr. 
Walton had so unsparingly condemned that 
afternoon. 


[ 171 ] 


CHAPTER XII 


FANCIES AND FACTS 


How many lies did it require to make 
The portly fact you here present us with? 

Browning. 



liNNER was an uneventful meal. 
Most of the company were too 
deeply interested in the prospect 
before them to be in a conversa- 
tional mood, and Sir Richard ex- 
erted himself to bring all the party 
into any discussion that arose, on the sound 
principle that there was safety in numbers. 
It seemed to him on the whole that ecclesi- 
astical topics were the least dangerous: it 
was known that they provided a common 
meeting ground between Mr. Walton and the 
Archdeacon. 

“I don’t know whether you’ve ever met 
our Vicar, Archdeacon,” he began. “He’s 
a capital chap, visits all the old people and 
does his best to keep the young ones out of 
mischief, but he can’t preach for nuts. He 
takes no end of trouble, I know, but the 

1 172 ] 


fancies and facts 

result’s simply deplorable. He knows he 
can’t do it too, which makes it worse. He 
told me rather a funny story the other day, 
about a Ruridecanal conference he went to. 
He made a speech proposing that the clergy 
should only have to produce one sermon a 
Sunday, and then any one who’d heard it in 
the morning could go out before it came on 
in the evening: have a hymn or something, 
and the collection of course, and then good- 
bye! Well, all the laymen who were there 
caught on to it like anything, said it was the 
best idea they’d ever heard, and so on, and 
he thought he was going to carry it — ^but then 
all the clergy got up one after another and 
said that they quite appreciated the self- 
sacrifice of the laity and all that, and how 
they knew they were only saying what they 
did out of pity for the hard-worked parson, 
and that they’d really be bitterly disappointed 
if they didn’t get their two sermons regu- 
larly. Hungry sheep looking up and not being 
fed, and all that. The laity begged them to 
believe they were quite sincere, but the clergy 
wouldn’t have it, and so, as there were more 
clergymen there than laymen, the motion 
was lost, and poor old Richardson came back 
[ 173 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


sadly to grind out his two discourses for 
Sunday.” 

The Archdeacon received this anecdote 
with portentous gloom. ‘T have often 
thought,” he said, “that the growing neglect 
of the sermon is one of the most serious signs 
of the times: the young High Churchmen 
of the present day are neglecting what has 
been in the past the most powerful weapon 
in their possession: I am sure Mr. Walton 
agrees with me?” 

“Well, I’m bound to say,” responded the 
brewer, “I hadn’t noticed much falling off 
in quantity, but I agree that the quality’s 
going down: it’s what would be called in the 
Trade a lowering of gravity all round.” 

Reahsing that he was on dangerous ground, 
he went on hastily: “And the sermons I’ve 
heard lately have often been just party 
pamphlets, advocating some new little trick 
or other as if that was the one thing Religion 
meant. I can’t think they can have spent 
much time in making them up. I know I’m 
old-fashioned, but I like a sermon that gives 
one something to think about, and what I 
get is a sniffy little lecture from a gentleman 
just down from Oxford who talks as if he 

[ 174 ] 


FANCIES 


AND 


FACTS 


were a young Apostle instead of being a 
young ass, as he very often is.” 

“I fear,” said the Archdeacon, ‘‘that it is 
sadly true that the younger generation of 
clergy are very remiss in keeping up their 
intellectual life: it is deplorable, most de- 
plorable. I know many a young curate, who 
has only been three or four years in Orders, 
who never dreams of writing out his sermon: 
he trusts to what he is pleased to call the 
inspiration of the moment. Five minutes’ 
prattle on the latest thing they have been 
reading in the papers is their conception of 
their duty as ministers of the Word! I 
trust, Mr. Ranby, if you will forgive an older 
man for asking the question, that you always 
write your sermons.^” 

‘ ‘Confound his impudence! ” thought Peter. 
“I’m afraid I can’t say I do,” he answered 
aloud : ‘ ‘the congregations I get in my mission 
district don’t seem quite to want a learned 
discourse such as Mr. Walton was speaking 
of: in fact,” he went on, “I really can’t 
remember that I’ve written a sermon for 
the last two years — no, certainly not for 
at least two years,” he added with every 
appearance of sincerity. 

The Archdeacon glanced at Mr. Walton 
[ 175 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

with a slight shrug of his shoulders, as much 
as to say, “What did I tell you?” but it was 
Mrs. Branson who carried on the conversation. 

“Well, I call that just too clever of you,” 
she said. “Now in America we think a 
great deal of the sermon: I remember a 
young preacher we had once in Chicago, and 
he often used to preach for an hour, and some- 
times for an hour and a half, and they told me 
that he had two lady typists hard at work 
every week from Wednesday morning right 
on to Saturday night putting it all down just 
as fast as he could think of it. My poor 
husband used to think the world of that man. 
Tauhne,’ he often said to me, ‘Pauhne, that 
young fellow is just too eloquent to live.’ 
But to think of Mr. Ranby doing it all out 
of his head! I’d just have loved to bring 
Chetwode to sit under you, Mr. Ranby!” 

“I’m afraid you’ve got too high an opin- 
ion of my eloquence, Mrs. Branson,” said 
Ranby, laughing: ‘ ‘I don’t think you’d 
find my parishioners shared your view. I’m 
not sure one’s best work isn’t done out of 
church: you remember what the poet says: 
“Common folk who read and write and like 
their betters speak 

Want something more than pipes and beer and 
sermons twice a week, 

1176] 


FANCIES 


AND 


FACTS 


and that ‘something more’ is what we’ve 
got to try and give them.” 

“I agree with you, Paul,” said Sir Rich- 
ard heartily; “give them a whist drive 
now and again, and a Social Evening, and a 
dance — that’ll keep them out of the pubs! 
We’ve got to do something of the kind down 
here or you’ll be making the town so jolly 
attractive that we shan’t have any one left 
on the land! ” 

Archdeacon Montford would have hked 
to pulverize Mr. Ranby: but he saw that the 
sense of the meeting was against him, and he 
did not wish to come into conflict with his 
host. ‘ ‘I must really speak to Dawkins,” he 
thought, “he may be able to give a hint to 
the poor young man’s Vicar.” He decided 
to change the subject, and tmned to Lady 
Mary. 

“I’m ’fraid, Mrs. Howard,” he said 
‘ ‘that I heard this evening that I simply must 
be in Manchester to-morrow for a meeting 
of my dilapidations committee: I do hope it 
won’t be very inconvenient if I ask to be sent 
in to an early train.^ I hope to be back in 
time for dinner, and I shall feel that I am 
leaving Mary in good hands.” 

The unexpected news was almost too good 
[ 177 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


to be true: the three other gentlemen 
glanced at each other with exultation. 

“Oh, that will be quite easy,” said Lady 
Mary; “I’m only so sorry that you should 
miss a day’s sport. Let me see, where are 
you going to-morrow, Dick.^ Is it to the 
Low FarmP But I’m afraid you’ll miss the 
Archdeacon sadly. Oughtn’t you to get 
another gun from somewhere? ” 

The sudden and dehghtful surprise had 
thrown Dick off his guard. 

“Oh, that’ll he all right,” said he: “I’ve 
got two other fellows coming.” He hesi- 
tated a moment, reahsing his faux pas, and 
went on with a slight blush — “at least I 
haven’t got them exactly, but there were two 
young fellows I’d told I might he able to give 
a day to, and now I must let them know. 
It’ll take two good ordinary shots to fill the 
Archdeacon’s place,” he added, smiling at his 
guest. 

The demon of mischief was working in 
Ranhy’s soul: the Archdeacon’s attack 
rankled, and he saw his chance of revenge. 

“I suppose,” he said across the table, “I 
suppose you’ve come across a good many of 
the big cotton people in Manchester.^ They 

1178] 


FANCIES 


AND 


FACTS 


seem to be making a rare fuss over this Indian 
cotton business.” 

The Archdeacon was too good a local 
patriot not to respond. ‘ Tt is a very serious 
situation,” he answered, “and there is no 
doubt that Lancashire will be very hard hit if 
nothing can be done. The Indian demands 
are very serious — very serious indeed.” 

“I expect Mr. Walton could tell us some- 
thing of the Indian point of view,” went on 
Ranby, with the light of mischief in his eye: 
‘ T think there is a good deal of cotton manu- 
factured in your part.^” 

“Yes, yes, there are cotton factories 
certainly,” said Mr. Walton sulkily; his 
distrust of Ranby was reviving, and he had no 
desire to embark on an exposition of Indian 
commercial policy. 

“I quite understand,” said the Arch- 
deacon, “that, where an entire population 
subsists on the manufacture of cotton, the 
Lancashire rivalry must seem a very grievous 
hardship, but nevertheless ” 

“Oh, but that could hardly be said of 
Masulipatam, could it?” said Lord Ranby: 
“they make other things besides cotton; 
don’t they, Mr. Walton?” 

The brewer glared at his tormentor. 

[1791 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

“Yes,” he said slowly, “there are other 
industries, certainly: there is tobacco and 
indigo — and chay-root.” 

“Indeed,” said the Archdeacon, “that is 
very interesting. Now what proportion of 
the population should you say was primarily 
interested in cotton?” 

Rage seethed in the brewer’s breast, hut 
there was no help for it: he glanced across 
the table at Peter, whose ingenuous coun- 
tenance expressed nothing but the hvehest 
interest. 

“Let me see,” he began, with the air of 
one repeating a lesson, ‘ ‘let me see — the area 
of the district of Masulipatam is approxi- 
mately 5000 square miles: the district is 
bounded on the S. W. by the river Kistnah, 
you know. The population at the last 
census was, in round figures, about 520,866, 
but when you come to the question of the 
exact proportion engaged in the cotton 
industry” — he had been going more and 
more slowly as he proceeded. His mind 
was engaged in the effort to divide 520,000 
among four leading trades: he was hampered 
at every turn by his ignorance of the probable 
demands of the chay-root industry: again, 
ought he to count in women and children? 

[ 180 ] 


FANCIES 


AND 


FACTS 


the number of square miles in his detested 
district kept on asserting itself with needless 
emphasis. He paused as though in deep 
thought. What answer he would have 
evolved from his materials will never be 
known, for at this moment Mrs. Branson, 
who was undisguisedly bored with statistics, 
interposed with another question. 

“Say, Mr. Walton,” she said, “what kind 
of a plant is that chay-root you mentioned 
right now? I can’t remember ever to have 
come across it before.” 

Any diversion might have been supposed 
to be welcome, but the proffered frying-pan 
was little more attractive than the fire which 
was at the moment consuming him. Ranby 
came to his rescue — none too soon. 

“I think I can answer that question, Mrs. 
Branson,” he said; “my brother-in-law, 
George Fitzherbert, of whom I think I was 
speaking last night, is very much interested 
in philology, and he tells me that our word 
cheroot is derived from that origin. It 
appears that these roots, when chopped up 
very small, give a peculiar flavour to the 
cigar, and the Masulipatam cigar, as Mr. 
Walton will tell you, is renowned all over 
India. Very curious these derivations of 
[ 181 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

words, aren’t they? I confess I’d no idea of 
it till George wrote.” 

“Well, isn’t that just too curious.^” said 
Mrs. Branson, with undisguised interest. 

The Archdeacon looked suspiciously at 
Mr. Ranhy, but was baffled as before by his 
cherubic air of innocence. He turned again 
to Mr. Walton. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I am 
afraid this digression, this very interesting 
digression, has prevented us from hearing 
what you were going to teU us about the 
cotton industry. I should much like to get 
some really exact figures from one who can 
speak with authority. One hears so much 
loose talking nowadays that it is more than 
usually valuable to have the opportunity of 
consulting a real expert.” 

But Mr. Walton had employed the interval 
in conveying to Sir Richard an agonized 
appeal, and the baronet came to the help of 
his sorely tried uncle. 

“If you don’t mind. Archdeacon,” he 
said, “I think we must ask you to postpone 
your talk with Mr. Walton: it’s getting 
rather late, and we oughtn’t to keep the 
Professor waiting: I think, Alice, if you 
don’t mind, we’ll come along with you so as 
[ 182 ] 


FANCIES AND FACTS 

to be able to get to work at once. The 
spirits won’t mind tobacco, I expect, and if 
the ladies are equally kind, we can smoke in 
the drawing-room.” 

The company adjourned. Ranby hngered 
for a word with Mr. Walton. 

‘ T think we gave him as good as we got,” 
he whispered; ‘ ‘but what a head you’ve got 
for figures! I can’t tell you how I admired 
you.” 

Mr. Walton would have liked to point out 
to his ally that he had been wantonly exposed 
in the forefront of the battle: but after all he 
had escaped, and the chay-root episode had 
stirred him to gratitude. 

“I should like to listen to one of your 
sermons, Mr. Ranby,” he said grimly; “the 
virtue of Truth would be a good subject. I 
suppose you made up all that about the chay- 
root.^” 

“Of course I did,” said that unabashed 
young nobleman; “I haven’t the least idea 
what it is: we must have another look at old 
Chambers to-morrow.” 

And they followed the others into the 
drawing-room. 


[ 183 ] 


CHAPTER XIII 


IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 

And after all what is a lie? ’Tis but 
The truth in masquerade. 

Btron. 



[Professor Lapski was installed in 
an arm-chair: he rose as the ladies 
entered and greeted them with a 
wan smile. 

‘ ‘I am here,” he said; ‘ ‘I will do 
my possible — ^but the power, he is 
not of me. The spirits must work. I, I am 
but the pen, the eye, the earl We will begin, 
if you please, with that which is least, and 
then, if it can be, we come at last to that 
which is high.” 

It had been decided that the turning of 
tables should form the first exhibition of the 
controlling power of the spirits from another 
world. The phenomenon is so familiar that 
it calls for no special description. It is 
enough to say that four pairs of strong and 
wiUing hands can achieve surprising results, 
and that the table at Drayworth Manor dis- 
[ 184 ] 


IMAGINARY 


CONVERSATIONS 


played an agility which did credit to their 
efforts. The Professor did not affect to 
attach much importance to the performance. 

‘Tt is but a little thing,” he said; ‘T 
value it not, but it tells me the spirits are 
willing. It is a good night: I have hopes, 
yes, but I promise not. We can but try, and 
you will lend the willing mind, is it not so? 
The spirits come not often to those who trust 
them not.” 

The Archdeacon snorted audibly: he was 
frankly incredulous of Lapski’s special pow- 
ers: the table-tiuTiing annoyed him, as being 
a thing for which he could not account, but 
it was very far from convincing him that 
he had to deal with anything more than a 
common trickster. The rest of the company, 
for various reasons, were only too ready to 
comply with Lapski’s request. 

“We come now,” he said, “to another 
trial. Let us sit at this table — ah, he is still 
now! we put the candles upon him, so. I 
am not of those who work in the dark. And 
now I will try to bring before your eyes some 
one who is not here. You shall name him 
to me and I will call. Who shall it be? 
Think well, that he may be some one whoin 
you shall all know, that so the doubters may 
1185] 


T H ROUGH THE SHADOWS 


believe ” and he glanced at the Arch- 

deacon. 

There was a pause: it was not easy to 
think of any one whom all the company could 
be trusted to recognise. 

‘ T’ve got it,” said Peter at last; ‘ ‘let’s ask 
the Professor to call up my brother. We’re 
as like one another as two peas, so you’ll all 
have a chance of judging.” 

The suggestion found general favour. 

“Yes, Professor,” said Sir Richard, “let 
us have Lord Ranby.” 

“So be it,” said Lapski; “I can but try; 
and now I beg of you all to be silent while I 
shall make my call.” 

There was silence in the room: the candle- 
light shone on the countenance of the Pro- 
fessor as with half-shut eyes he wrestled in 
thought with his unseen auxiliaries. The 
rest of the room was in darkness, and even 
Mr. Walton could not repress a slight thrill 
of emotion as he looked round upon the scene. 
The ladies were frankly on the tiptoe of 
expectation, though he saw Miss Montford 
cast a hurried look at Ranby, and felt under 
the table a rapid pressure of the foot which 
appeared to be a misdirected answer. 

One minute passed — two minutes — and 
1186] 


IMAGINARY 


CONVERSATIONS 


then, very softly, was heard a gentle sound 
as of a nail scratching on a window pane. 
The Professor raised his hand. 

“Hark,” he said, “it has been hard — I 
know not why, the spirits they mock at me — 
they say I ask a fooHsh thing, but I entreat — 
I entreat, and they yield at last. Behold!” 

And he sprang to the window, and drew 
the curtain aside. The night was dark, but 
there, in the frame of darkness, looking in at 
the window was a face — ^it gleamed with an 
unearthly light, or so it seemed to the on- 
lookers, for an electric torch in the dark can 
give a very eerie look. And the features 
were unmistakable. They were the very 
replica of those of the man who sat at the 
table staring into the dark. 

“There’s a glass — ^it must be a glass,” — 
muttered the Archdeacon. 

“Oh, steady on. Archdeacon,” said Sir 
Richard; ‘ ‘why, Paul’s sitting and he’s stand- 
ing — and just look at his hands!” 

But Lapski paid no attention to the hostile 
comment. 

“Ah,” he cried with passion, “it is a lie! 
I have been mocked. It is not his brother, it 
is himself!” 

It was indeed so; in the moment of the 
[ 187 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

first surprise they had not realised it, but the 
man whose face thus looked upon them wore 
indeed a clerical dress, less orthodox perhaps 
than that of Peter, but undeniable. 

Lapski dropped the curtain and turned 
upon Ranby in a towering rage. “It is you 
that mock me,” he cried; “speak, who are 
you?” He threatened him with a menacing 
forefinger, and his eyes glared savagely 
through his spectacles. “Is this your trust 
and honour with the spirits? Speak now! 
It is enough, let us have done with lies!” 

All eyes were turned on Peter. He had 
blushed scarlet, and it was in a low tone that 
he spoke, very different from the jaunty ac- 
cents which had provoked the Archdeacon 
earher in the evening. 

“I’m awfully sorry. Professor,” he said, 
“it was a rotten thing to do and I do hope 
your spirit friends won’t take it out of you 
for it. It’s all my fault! I can’t tell you 
how sorry I am, Mrs. Howard,” he went on, 
tiu-ning to her, “but the fact is I’m Peter 
Ranby and not Paul at all. I got involved in 
pretending to be him in the train, as Mr. 
Walton can tell you, and then I had to stick 
to it, or he’d have found me out. Of course 
I never meant to give all this trouble, and I 
[188] 


IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 

can only say I’m ashamed of myself, and I do 
hope you and Dick will forgive me.” 

Mr. Walton came magnanimously to his 
assistance. 

“I think I can explain how it happened,” 
he said, ‘ ‘and you will see that it was a gener- 
ous mistake on Lord Ranby’s part. He 
heard his brother being attacked by a shock- 
ing old cad in the train, and he pretended he 
was Paul Ranby just to be able to defend him 
better. I suppose I’ve got the first griev- 
ance,” he went on, smiling, “as I was the 
first to be taken in, but I can only say that I 
forgive you freely and I hope that Alice and 
Dick will be equally merciful.” 

‘ ‘Don’t say another word about it, Peter,” 
cried Sir Richard; “I think it was a jolly 
sporting thing to do, and I quite see you 
couldn’t stop it when you’d once got started. 
Jolly hard when the ball’s once rolling, isn’t 
it, Uncle Rob.^ the first step on the down- 
ward path and all thatl” 

Mr. Walton smiled again. Lady Mary 
echoed her cousin’s forgiveness. Peter 
turned to the Archdeacon. 

‘ ‘I do hope you’ll forgive me too, sir,” he 
said. “I felt an awful worm when you were 
giving me all that good advice. I’ll hand it 
[ 189 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


on to Paul, I promise you — ^but you do see 
now why I couldn’t tell you much about 
Canon Dawkins?” 

The Archdeacon took a moment to con- 
sider his verdict. He had the constitutional 
dislike of a dignitary to being deceived, and 
there was no doubt that he had wasted a 
good deal of valuable seed on a singularly 
unproductive soil. On the other hand, he 
could not disguise from himself that a possible 
detrimental had been removed, and that the 
flirtation which had caused him so much 
annoyance might be viewed with a more 
lenient eye. It may be that an appealing 
look on his daughter’s face assisted the cause 
of mercy. His countenance relaxed. 

“Well, well,” he said, “young men will 
be young men, and I have no doubt that Lord 
Ranby’s motives were of the highest. I 
confess that I had some suspicion of him from 
the first: old eyes, you know, are sometimes 
sharper than you young ones think, ha ha!” 

“Yes, sir, I was very nervous when I felt 
I had your eye on me,” said the sycophantic 
Peter; and the matter was satisfactorily set- 
tled on the basis of a general agreement that 
the Archdeacon had practically made the 
discovery unaided. 


[ 190 ] 


IMAGINARY 


CONVERSATIONS 


Lapski had sunk into a chair and paid 
no attention to these amenities. When the 
company had recovered from the shock of 
Lord Ranby’s confession they looked on him 
with some dismay. He was muttering to 
himself. “Forgive me! ah yes, forgive! 
it was in ignorance that I speak! Not for 
the world would I deceive you. The lie, he 
was not of me!” 

He roused himself and addressed the 
others. 

“Forme, I forgive! for the spirits, I know 
not: it can be that they are angry with me 
for that I have deceived them unknowing. 
Let us proceed.” 

“Fm sure we all agree that was a very 
wonderful vision. Professor,” said Mr. Wal- 
ton; “I confess I could not have believed it 
if I had not seen it with my own eyes, but 
no doubt there’s some explanation of it. I 
suppose what we saw was the astral body of 
Paid, whatever that exactly means, and you 
spirited it here from the Potteries.” 

‘ ‘An appearance must be a material 
thing,” said the Archdeacon didactically; 
“the impression on the retina can only be 
produced by physical causes: Paul Ranby 
exists in space, and space (as I heard Pro- 
[1911 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

fessor Einstein explain the other day) is after 
all not an extension but a manifold. What 
exists in one part is no doubt transferable 
to any other part.” 

Professor Lapski had listened to this dis- 
cussion with keen attention. 

“Ah,” he said, “you are not yet con- 
vinced.^ You think I juggle with the things 
of this world! I tell you No! it is the world 
of spirits with which I deal. Look, I give 
you the proof! If I show you that which 
never has existed, you believe then, YesP 
And I will do it, if the spirits forbid not! 
Listen, sir,” he went on rapidly, addressing 
Mr. Walton, “you are a man of no children, 
is it not so? What if I show you the very 
forms of the children you might have had, 
will you then believe? Nay, you shall be- 
heve! Sit down and I shall show!” 

He almost forced the reluctant brewer into 
his seat, and the company, overpowered by 
his energy, resumed their places in silence. 
Mr. Walton was visibly moved. 

“Ah, if you could do that — ” he muttered, 
“if you could do that!” He shook his 
head with an air of incredulity. 

Lapski sat down: as the moment of crisis 
drew near, he calmed himself by a manifest 

[ 192 ] 


IMAGINARY 


CONVERSATIONS 


effort, but the nervous working of his fingers 
betrayed the greatness of the strain. Lady 
Mary gazed at him with wonder: Mrs. 
Branson was by this time in the last stage of 
nervous excitement, and the hands of the two 
young ladies stole insensibly under the table 
into the reassuring grasp of their respective 
admirers. 

Mr. Walton sat with his face buried in his 
hands, the better, no doubt, to conceal his 
emotions; even the scepticism of the Arch- 
deacon was awed into silence. 

As before, there was a prolonged period of 
silence: this time there was no audible sign 
of the crisis, but at last Lapski arose; his 
eyes were staring as those of one walking in 
his sleep: his fingers still worked convul- 
sively. “They come, they come,” he mut- 
tered; “ah, grant us but the power to seel” 
He advanced slowly to the curtain — ^peered 
through its folds as though they had no 
power to check his vision, and then, with his 
features relaxing into something like a smile, 
he turned and beckoned to Mr. Walton. 

“Approach,” he said in a whisper which 
thrilled through the ears of his audience, 
“approach, 0 doubtful man, and see what 
might have been!” 


[ 193 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


Mr. Walton rose from his seat, and with 
unsteady steps approached the window. 
Lapski with a grand gesture flung the curtain 
back. “Behold!” he cried. 

The rest of the company could dimly see 
from where they sat: the window opened on 
a lawn which was bordered by bushes. From 
the shadow there emerged two forms: their 
figures, their dress, could be but dimly seen, 
but their faces glowed with the same un- 
earthly radiance — dimmer perhaps, for elec- 
tric torches cannot last for ever, but un- 
mistakably the same. Mr. Walton uttered 
a great cry and struck his forehead with his 
hand. 

“Gracious God in heaven!” he almost 
screamed: ‘ ‘one of them has my wife’s eyes! 
her hair! her very look! It is too much!” 
He put his hand to his throat as though to 
loosen his collar, and with a strangled ex- 
clamation fell fainting to the floor. The 
others had left their seats and crept up 
behind him to peer over his shoulder. Lapsld 
dropped the curtain and sprang to his as- 
sistance, but it was Sir Richard whose strong 
arm broke his fall. Lord Ranby loosened 
his collar, while the Archdeacon ran hurriedly 
to the dining-room, and returned with a 

1194] 


IMAGINARY 


CONVERSATIONS 


soda-water syphon, which he squirted vig- 
orously into the face of the unconscious 
brewer. 

This treatment, which was an entirely un- 
authorised addition to the programme, rap- 
idly took effect: Mr. Walton sat up with some- 
thing very like a scowl on his face, but on 
catching the Professor’s eye relapsed into 
a semiconscious condition. Lapski and his 
nephew supported him from the room. 
Ranby made as if he would follow, but the 
Archdeacon laid a shaking hand upon his 
arm. 

“Did you see.^^” he asked in a voice 
quavering with emotion. 

“See what?” asked Peter in some anxiety. 

“The second of the two,” whispered the 
Archdeacon. “I saw him just before the 
curtain fell, and Heaven forgive me I it might 
have been the face of poor Mr. Walton 
himself!” 

Peter had himself been surprised at the 
likeness between Geoffrey and his father: 
“By Jove! that fellow England’s a perfect 
artist,” he said to himself; “I shouldn’t 
have thought it could have been done.” At 
any rate it was clear that there was nothing 
to be feared from the Archdeacon; he col- 
[1951 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

lapsed into a chair, and Ranhy felt at liberty 
to follow his confederates. 

He found them in the smoking-room: Mr. 
Walton was a Httle ruffled at the drastic 
application of the soda water, and was dis- 
posed to blame his nephew for not having 
foreseen and averted it, but the warm con- 
gratulations of the other three on the masterly 
skill with which he had played his part soon 
restored his self-respect, and after a stiff 
tumbler of hot whisky and water he an- 
nounced his intention of going to bed. 

“I’ve done enough for one evening, I 
think,” he said, “and I’ll get up to my room 
where I can smoke in peace. A cigar, or 
what Lord Ranhy would call a chay-root, is 
what I want to soothe my nerves. I wish 
you the best of luck with the rest of the 
evening! it ought to be pretty plain sailing 
now, I think.” 

The others returned to the drawing-room 
and announced that Mr. Walton did not feel 
equal to further exertions: the Professor 
showed deep compunction at the thought of 
the distress he had caused, and the Arch- 
deacon pulled himself together sufficiently to 
point the moral that such dealings with the 
occult were dangerous, if not immoral. But 

[ 196 ] 


IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 

Mrs. Branson was urgent for a continuance of 
the seance, “Professor Lapski,” she said 
solemnly, “I reckon that from first to last 
I’ve employed a matter of some five and 
twenty mediums to arouse my poor dear 
husband. Not one of them has done it. 
They all said that the case was one of very 
unusual complexity. But I’ve never run 
against one who gave me half the confidence 
that you do. I guess that if any one can 
awaken the spirit of Chetwode P. Branson 
it’s you that are the man! So I do hope 
you’ll just start right in and give him a call.” 

There was no resisting her appeal: the 
party resumed their places at the table, and 
the Professor produced the board of letters 
on which the moving pointer was to spell out 
the answer. 

“I know not,” he said gravely, “if he will 
wish to speak himself, or to speak by the 
board: it is right that we are ready.” 

His preliminary operations did not differ 
greatly from those of other practitioners. It 
was not long before a thin far-away voice 
broke the silence. 

“Who are you?” it said. 

“You just tell him it’s me, Professor,” 
said Mrs. Branson; “but that’s never Chet- 
1197] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


wode’s voice! he had a deep bass voice, 
though he never spoke very loud. He never 
was what I call a talking man.” 

“Ah, madam,” said Lapski, “that was not 
his voice, no — ^it is the voice of my friend the 
spirit who show him the way.” 

He gave the necessary injunctions in a 
clear voice, and it was not long before a 
deeper tone was heard. 

“Well, that’s more like him,” said Mrs. 
Branson, who was hstening attentively: “it 
sounds a bit husky, but it’s more hke Chet- 
wode; can you make out just what he says? ” 

‘ ‘It is hard,” said the Professor after hsten- 
ing intently; “he says one thing very often, 
but I cannot hear it right.” 

“And that’s strange, too,” rephed Mrs. 
Branson, ‘ ‘for when Chetwode was at all ex- 
cited he often would say just the same thing 
three times over — ‘Nonsense, nonsense, non- 
sense,’ just like that.” 

‘ ‘I think it is ‘Not here’ that he is saying,” 
said Lapski after hstening again; ‘ ‘hut please 
try yourself to hear.” 

They all hstened intently, and this time 
even the Archdeacon could distinguish the 
words ‘Not here, not here, not here’ uttered 
three times with considerable emphasis. 

[ 198 ] 


IMAGINARY 


CONVERSATION S 


‘ ‘He means perhaps that he cannot speak 
to you here,” suggested the Archdeacon; 
‘ ‘perhaps the Professor could ask him where 
he would wish to speak?” 

The question was put, and after a time the 
answer came three times repeated as before, 
“America, America, America!” 

“Well, isn’t that just too strange?” said 
Mrs. Branson; “poor dear Chetwode would 
never come over to Europe, try all I could 
to bring him. He used to say he couldn’t 
face the sea voyage, and it looks as if it was 
just the same still. Not but what,” she 
added reflectively, ‘ ‘one would have thought 
he might have got round some other way 
from there. Well, you just tell him I’m 
going right home to Chicago and I’ll try and 
ring him up from there.” 

At this point the voice said unmistakably, 
and indeed with a trace of asperity, ‘ ‘No, no, 
no.” 

Mrs. Branson was not surprised. 

“Well, and that’s very true, too! poor 
dear Chetwode never did seem rightly to like 
Chicago: he used to say Lake Michigan was 
too like the sea, and he never could fancy the 
Boulevards: he always seemed hankering 
after his home way down in Virginia. You 
[ 199 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

just ask him, Professor, whether it’s there 
he’d like to speak to me.” 

Further researches revealed that Virginia 
was in fact the scene which Mr. Branson 
preferred for a conversation with his wife: 
he added the injunction that she must go 
there quite alone, and must spend a solitary 
vigil of a fortnight. 

Lord Ranby gave an incautious chuckle, 
but passed it off as a cough. At this point 
the spirit evinced a desire to finish his com- 
munications by means of the board, which 
was accordingly brought into play. The 
message took some time to spell out, but 
there was eventually no doubt that Mr. 
Branson desired Mrs. Branson to return to 
London early on the next day, where she 
could find some good news awaiting her. 

The pointer now began to wobble in an 
indeterminate manner: efforts to extract a 
meaning were in vain, and Professor Lapski 
who had been showing signs of fatigue (for 
ventriloquism is an undeniable strain), an- 
nounced that no further revelations were 
likely for this evening. Mrs. Branson ac- 
cepted the inevitable with a good grace. 

‘ T can’t tell you. Professor, how much I’ve 
enjoyed this fittle talk: it quite brings back 
[ 200 ] 


IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS 

old times to have me talking to Chetwode 
and him hardly saying a word except to tell 
me he couldn’t bear it any more. Well, I 
think I must go up to London to-morrow by 
that early train, if you’ll be so very kind as to 
send me into it, Mrs. Howard. I’ll leave 
Diana in your hands and I know you’ll give 
her a real good time.” 

“Oh, that’ll be quite simple,” said Lady 
Mary; “in fact I think the Archdeacon’s 
going by that train already.” 

‘ ‘I shall be proud to act as your escort as 
far as Shrewsbury, Mrs. Branson,” said that 
gentleman. “This has been a most inter- 
esting evening, and I am sure we are much 
indebted to Professor Lapski, very deeply 
indebted. You have given us much to think 
over, sir, and I hope to bring the matter of 
the intercourse with the spirit world before 
my clergy in my next archidiaconal charge. 
They are strangely behind the times in such 
things.” 

The Professor bowed his acknowledgments. 

“And now, Mrs. Howard, in view of my 
early start I think, if you will forgive me, I 
ought to be going to bed — and Mary too — 
my dear child, I’m afraid this evening has 
been almost too much for you I You look 
[2011 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

quite over-excited. It is high time you were 
in bed. Good-night — good-night!” 

The company separated: the three re- 
maining gentlemen watched the ladies ascend 
to their rooms, and then retired to the 
smoking-room. As the door closed behind 
them Sir Richard smote England heavily on 
the shoulder. 

“Tommy,” he said, “you’re It! You’re 
absolutely It! I’m more grateful than I can 
say! I hereby solemnly invite you to be my 
best man. I won’t deny that Peter was first 
choice, but he’s what they call otherwise 
engaged: and after to-night I couldn’t have 
any one else. Peter, old man, I give you a 
toast — ‘Professor Lapski, the Prince of Im- 
personators! ’ ” 

At this moment the door opened and 
Uncle Bob stealthily thrust in his head. 

“Come on. Uncle Bob,” cried Sir Richard, 
‘ ‘you’ll drink Lapski’s health, I know. Now 
then both of you, musical honours!” 

His two hearers responded gallantly to the 
appeal, and the Archdeacon, as he undressed, 
heard the sound of melody arise. “Wonder- 
ful spirits those young men have! Wonder- 
ful spirits!” he said to himself: “I only hope 
they won’t disturb poor Mr. Walton!” 

[ 202 ] 


CHAPTER XIV 


CONFESSIONS 


And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine. 


Wordsworth. 



T was a small party which met at 
breakfast the next morning: the 
Archdeacon and Mrs. Branson 
had left by the early train, and 
Professor Lapski did not appear: 
Sir Richard explained that the ef- 
forts of the night before had told on his 
strength, and that he was doubtful how soon 
he would feel equal to society. 

“Now, Dick,” said Lady Mary, “I sim- 
ply must insist on knowing all about him! 
Where did you pick him up.^ And how 
did he manage all those wonderful things.^ 
My head’s simply in a whirl, and I 
can’t make up my mind whether he’s the 
most wonderful man of modern times or 
simply a gigantic fraud. Naturally I lean to 
the latter idea — but then I can’t account for 
half the things I saw — and I’m bound to say 
[ 203 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

that I did find myself quite getting to like 
him yesterday. I saw quite a lot of him while 
you were out shooting, and really he seemed 
so nice and human — quite a pathetic figure.” 

The other ladies joined their entreaties to 
hers: the absence of their respective parents 
allowed Miss Branson and Miss Montford 
to assert their personal wishes with greater 
emphasis than would have been the case 
before. Mr. Walton and Lord Ranby 
looked at Sir Richard. 

“It’s up to you, old man,” said Peter; “I 
don’t think it’s fair to leave them in the 
dark.” 

Sir Richard hesitated. His promise to 
England tied his tongue, and he felt a certain 
dehcacy in explaining to two young ladies the 
mystification to which their respective par- 
ents had been subjected. 

“Well, I’m afraid I must confess,” he 
began at last, ‘ ‘that Lapski’s a bit of a fraud. 
That isn’t to say that he isn’t a great man 
too,” he went on, “for that he is. But if 
I’m to make a clean breast of it, I must allow 
that he’s no more a spiritualist medium than 
I am. I do hope you’ll forgive me,” he 
added, turning to Diana; “but I knew your 
mother was so keen on spooks and all those 

[ 204 ] 


CONFESSIONS 

things, and I was so fearfully anxious to get 
you down to stay here, that I told her I hoped 
to get a great medium to meet her, and 
pitched her no end of a yarn about this 
imaginary Lapski. A rotten thing to do, I 
know, but you see how it was. And of 
course at first I thought I should have just 
to say that he couldn’t come, and face the 
music myself — and, after all, I should have 
got you down here, which was the main 
thing, but then it happened that I had a most 
awfully clever friend, a real white man if 
ever there was one, and I put it to him and he 
promised to see me through. And whatever 
you think of my share in the business. I’m 
sure you’ll agree he did his part uncommon 
well. And now you see,” he added, turning 
to Miss Branson, ‘ ‘why I wasn’t very keen to 
talk about the Professor yesterday evening. 
I knew you’d got some suspicions, and I 
didn’t hke to ask you what they were. Of 
course I should have loved to tell you all 
about him, but it didn’t seem quite fair some- 
how to rope you into a httle conspiracy 
against your mother.” 

Miss Branson smiled her forgiveness: it 
appeared that Sir Richard had found other 

[ 205 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


subjects of conversation of at least equal 
interest. 

“I noticed,” she said, “that you didn’t 
seem to want to talk about him much: 
whenever I said anything about the Pro- 
fessor or Mr. Walton you always managed 
to turn the subject.” 

“I had a rare lot of turning to do,” 
admitted the baronet; ‘ ‘an eel wouldn’t have 
been in it! You see Uncle Bob wasn’t 
quite a safe topic either!” 

“Yes, about Mr. Walton’s sons.^” asked 
Miss Montford; “how in the world did he 
manage that.^” 

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve got to do the 
apologising there,” said the brewer; “you 
see Dick had asked my two boys down here 
to shoot — they’re in the house somewhere 
now — ^but I’d managed to get tied up with 
your mother. Miss Diana, and she’d some- 
how formed the idea ” 

“Oh come, Uncle Bob!” broke in Dick. 

“Oh well, yes, I’d told her that I hadn’t 
got any children. I can’t explain why at the 
moment. And then I suppose it was Dear 
Brutus gave us the idea, but Lapski did all 
the working of it out, and the rest of us were 
just supers.” 

[ 206 ] 


CONFESSIONS 


‘ ‘You did that faint ahnost too well, Uncle 
Bob,” said Lady Mary with a smile; ‘ ‘I know 
you nearly frightened me out of my life.” 

“My dear Alice,” said Mr. Walton, 
genuinely distressed, “I am sorry! I ought 
to have thought of that. I wouldn’t have 
worried you for the world, but I had to do 
what I was told. I didn’t like the idea of 
fainting myself, but Lapski send I had to, 
and Dick promised to catch me, and, selfishly, 
I never thought of you.” 

Lady Mary blushed a little. 

“Do you know,” she said slowly, “as 
every one’s confessing, I feel I ought to make 
my contribution! And I’m worse off than 
you, for it isn’t only you I’ve got to apologise 
to, but almost more to Diana and Mary. 
It’s all Dick’s fault, as usual,” she went on; 
‘ ‘I’m bound to say that, or else it would sound 
quite too dreadful, but the awful fact is that 
I’m not, Alice Howard at all!” 

The two young ladies gave a shriek of 
surprise: Mr. Walton’s coffee cup almost 
dropped from his hand. 

“Oh, it isn’t quite as bad as it might be,” 
she continued hurriedly, “for after all I am 
a relation of yours, though not the one you 
thought. I’m Mary Summers, and you 
1207] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

know my father and mother quite well, and 
you’ve seen me several times, though you 
wouldn’t remember it. You see, Diana,” 
she added, turning to that young lady, ‘ ‘poor 
Dick telephoned to me in a dreadful state 
because Ahce Howard had to throw him over 
at the last moment, and he knew he couldn’t 
get your mother and you here if there wasn’t 
some one to be hostess, and as I’ve always 
been thought to be hke her it seemed a simple 
and harmless plan. Of course I ought never 
to have done it, and I’m sure I shouldn’t have 
done it if I’d known all it was going to mean. 
I’ve had some terrible moments,” she added 
with a httle shudder of recollection. 

Mr. Walton was thinking deeply. 

“Then perhaps that explains,” he began — 
‘ ‘but no, I don’t see how it does. What is the 
explanation of that story about the divorce 
and the drunken nm*se and George Howard? 
Dick promised to clear it up, but he never 
has.” 

Lady Mary blushed again. “That was 
just the worst of it,” she said; “you see, 
Diana, your mother got it into her head that 
I was George’s second wife ” 

“Oh come, Mary!” said Sir Richard. 

“Well, all right, yes, I told her I was. I 
[ 208 ] 


CONFESSIONS 


know it sounds stupid,” she went on still 
more hurriedly, “but somehow I felt I had 
to. And then I had to account for what had ^ 
become of her, and hke an idiot I said she’d 
run away from him. But I don’t know who 
the drunken nurse was; I know I never said 
anything about her.” 

Mr. Walton whistled. 

“Well, I’m glad it’s no worse,” he said; 
“upon my word, there doesn’t seem to be 
much to choose between us.” 

Miss Montford had also been doing some 
thinking on her own account . ‘ ‘So that’s why 
you called me Mary!” she cried, turning to 
Sir Richard. “I couldn’t imagine why you 
were so affectionate all of a sudden and took 
me off to the stables . I thought there must be 
something funny about it, when we got there 
and only found the garden pony at home.” 

It was Sir Richard’s turn to exhibit some 
confusion. 

“You little knew what you were saving 
me from at the moment,” he answered; ‘ ‘I’m 
bound to say I’m surprised I stopped at 
calling you Mary. I might have gone to 
almost any length in my gratitude.” 

‘ ‘It’s enough to make one’s head go 
round,” said Miss Montford; “when Lord 
[ 209 ] 


THROUGH THE SHA DO W S 

Ranby told me last night who he was, I 
thought that was had enough, hut I never 
thought that all the rest of you were in dis- 
guise as well! I’ve got a Httle confession to 
make too, though it’s not quite as had as the 
rest: I think what Lord Ranhy said must 
have made me a little suspicious, and I got 
it into my head somehow that Mr. Walton 
wasn’t really an Indian Civilian, and when 
father asked him all those questions about 
India I had an idea he was going to break 
down. But of course, when he answered 
him so clearly I saw what a stupid mistake I’d 
made. You will forgive me, won’t you.^” 
she went on, toning to Mr. Walton with a 
charming smile. 

The brewer showed signs of embarrass- 
ment. 

“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Walton will forgive 
you,” said Lord Ranhy: “say no more 
about it. Miss Montford! If you doubt 
his facts again he’ll make you read up all 
about Masulipatam in an Encyclopaedia.” 

''You've got a brother still to account for, 
Ranby,” said Mr. Walton, chuckhng: “it’s 
no good your pretending to be the only 
virtuous member of the party.” 

“Oh, poor old Paul,” said his brother 
[ 210 ] 


CONFESSIONS 

airily, “he’s all right! he had a jolly easy 
part to play last night, and if I’m not mis- 
taken he’s making a very hearty breakfast in 
the housekeeper’s room at this moment with 
Lapski and the others.” 

“But that reminds me, Dick,” said Lady 
Mary, “you’ve never answered my original 
question — Who is Professor Lapski.^” 

It required, as may have been gathered, 
an unusual combination of circumstances to 
reduce the baronet to silence, but for once he 
did not see what answer he could decently 
give. 

‘ ‘The fact is,” he said at last, ‘ ‘my friend 
made me swear I wouldn’t give him away to 
you, Mary. I don’t know why he made such 
a point of it,” he added mendaciously, “but 
he said I might tell Peter and Mr. Walton, 
but wasn’t on any account to tell you, and I 
can’t let him down after he’s played up so 
nobly to me. You don’t think I can, do you, 
Peter 

Lord Ranby nodded agreement . The prob- 
lem seemed insoluble. It was Mr. Walton 
who provided a solution. “I quite see that 
you can’t say anything more, Dick,” he said; 
“but I’m not bound by any such promise. 
Besides I should rather like to see my boys, 
[ 211 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

after that fleeting glimpse I had of them last 
night. If you’ll come with me, Alice — I beg 
your pardon, Mary! — to the housekeeper’s 
room, I think I can satisfy yom* curiosity.” 

Lady Mary accepted the invitation with 
alacrity; she and Mr. Walton left the room 
together. Lord Ranby and Miss Montford 
strolled out through the window into the 
garden, and Sir Richard and Diana were left 
alone. 

‘ ‘I do hope you’ll forgive me. Miss Diana,” 
he said earnestly: “you see it all happened 
because I was so fearfully anxious to get 
you down here, and I don’t mind saying 
it’s been worth it to me! you do know that, 
don’t you?” 

Miss Branson did not answer, but the smile 
in her eyes emboldened the baronet to 
approach. “Diana!” he cried. . . . The 
nature of the ensuing conversation may be 
gathered from the remark with which Sir 
Richard brought it to a close a quarter of an 
hour later. 

“Now what do you say,” he said, “to 
strolling down into the village and sending a 
wire to your mother? She’U be getting up 
to town in an hour or two, and I should hate 
her not to find the good news awaiting her. 

[ 212 ] 


CONFESSIONS 

She might begin to think old Lapski was a 
fraud!” 

Mr. Walton, meanwhile, guided Lady 
Mary to the housekeeper’s room: he paused 
at the door. “I think we shall find them all 
here,” he remarked, as he gently opened it. 

Four young gentlemen were sitting round 
the table, having obviously just finished 
breakfast: one who sat with his back to the 
door was apparently reading portions of the 
Times aloud. 

“I missed the paper yesterday,” he re- 
marked gloomily. “Just my luck! there 
seems to have been a rare good finish at 
the Oval! Can any of you tell me what 
happened? ” 

He paused for an answer. As none came, 
he looked up and was amazed to see his three 
companions in the act of beating a stealthy 
retreat through the window. 

“What’s up?” he exclaimed, and he 
turned towards the door. 

“Mary,” said Mr. Walton, “I want to 
present to you the hero of last night’s per- 
formance to whom we all owe so much — 
Captain England — Lady Mary Summers — 
Oh, you know one another already?” for 
Lady Mary had advanced and was warmly 
[ 213 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

shaking the hand of the discomfited Captain. 

“Oh yes,” she said, “Captain England 
and I are old acquaintances — I think I may 
say friends, after last night? for we were on 
the same side, weren’t we, though I didn’t 
know it? It was rather cruel of you, though, 
to insist on keeping me in the dark.” 

The Captain flushed deeply and his hand 
went to caress his non-existent moustache: 
its absence reminded him of his disguise, and 
he turned a still duskier red. 

‘ T’m awfully sorry,” he stammered; ‘ ‘you 
know it was all Dick’s fault.” 

“Of course it was,” said Lady Mary, 
‘ ‘hut it would have been too bad if I hadn’t 
had a chance of thanking you. And I’m 
told you came to the rescue of my reputation 
in the farmhouse garden yesterday, when Mr. 
Walton was just going to denounce me as a 
liar — so I’ve got a private debt of gratitude 
as well!” 

Captain England was regaining confi- 
dence. “Oh, that wasn’t much,” he said 
“but I can’t expect you to forgive me for 
giving you that fright at dinner.” 

“Oh, that was no more than I deserved,” 
said Lady Mary, laughing; ‘ ‘but now I want 
you to tell me all about last night’s perform- 
[ 214 ] 


CONFESSIONS 


ance. There are still some things I can’t 
quite understand.” 

“I’ll leave you in the Professor’s hands,” 
said Mr. Walton; “if any one can explain 
what’s been happening for the last two days, 
I’m sure he’s the man to do it.” 

“Come along. Captain England,” said 
Lady Mary, “let’s walk in the garden while 
you tell your wondrous tale: it must be a 
relief to you to be able to walk about like a 
free man again.” 

“There’s not much to tell,” said Captain 
England, “but I’ll do my best.” 

He accompanied her into the garden. 
Despite his disclaimers, the tale took some 
time in the telhng, for it was not till nearly 
an hour later that Lady Mary encountered 
Sir Richard and Diana on their way back 
from the Post Office. The news they had to 
tell was no surprise to her, and she welcomed 
Diana warmly as a member of the family. 

“I’ve been having a thrilling time with 
Captain England,” she said, after that sub- 
ject had been temporarily exhausted; “he’s 
been telhng me all that happened, and I do 
think he was quite wonderful. And do you 
know, I think he’s ever so much handsomer 
without that horrid moustache I” 

[ 215 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

Another council of war had to be held, 
though one less anxious than that of the eve- 
ning before. It was agreed that the house 
party must break up. Dick and Diana 
decided to go to town as soon as possible 
to seek Mrs. Branson’s blessing, and Lady 
Mary made up her mind to travel with them 
to London. A pressing wire from Lord 
Ranhy to the Archdeacon informed him that 
he was taking Miss Montford to her mother, 
and hoped that it would be possible for him 
to meet them there. Paul, whose business 
with his brother had proved trifling though 
urgent, was persuaded to stay for a day or 
two’s sport (‘ ‘a jolly lot better luck than you 
deserve,” said Peter, “after giving us all 
such a fright”), and Mr. Walton and his two 
sons completed the number of the shooters. 
England refused to join them. “We’ve had 
two days off that old election,” he said, ‘ ‘and 
Dick doesn’t look like doing much business 
for the next day or two. I shall have to try 
and pacify his agent somehow, and it looks 
as if I should have to represent him on a good 
many platforms.” 

‘ ‘There’s no one I’d rather have to repre- 
sent me, Smiler,” said the baronet heartily. 
“Look here, old man, I’ll tell Wilson to 
[ 216 ] 


CONFESSIONS 

look out some old clothes of mine and you 
might really do the thing in style. I can’t 
help being sorry now you took off that 
moustache — not that it ever was much of 
an affair — ^but I expect you could get one 
made,” he ended with a note of hope in his 
voice. 

“I think not,'* said his friend with some 
emphasis. ‘ ‘I’ve had enough of play-acting 
for a bit, and if you can’t get into Parliament 
without my wearing out your old suits you’ll 
jolly well better stay a member of the publici ” 


[ 217 ] 


CHAPTER XV 


THE BREWER AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE 


Praised be all liars and all liesi 


Byron. 


H, Bob,’* said Mrs. Walton, 
rather more than a fortnight 
later, “I’ve had such a charming 
letter from Alice Howard press- 
ing us both to go down there for 
a few days’ shooting. I do hope 
you can manage it; let me read you what 
she says: 



“Deab Aunt Elizabeth — George and I do so 
hope that you and Uncle Bob can come to us for 
a few days’ shooting before the end of the month. 
It’s dreadful to think that I haven’t seen him 
since I was married, and of course George says 
it’s all my fault! 

“I was dreadfully disappointed not to be able 
to go to Drayworth to keep house for Dick, for 
jof course I should have seen Uncle Bob there, 
but Evelyn’s illness made it quite out of the 
question — he has got over the measles wonder- 
fully, and you need have no fear of infection. 

[ 218 ] 


AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE 

I’m afraid Dick had to have a bachelor party 
and couldn’t entertain his young lady as he had 
intended — however, he seems to have found the 
opportunity elsewhere! Isn’t his engagement too 
exciting? 

‘ ‘That reminds me. I’ve had the most extraor- 
dinary letter from Mrs. Branson: she must be a 
most remarkable lady!” 

“She is that,” observed Mr. Walton, with 
feeling. 

“But you haven’t met her, have you, 
Bob?” inquired his wife. “I thought they 
said she had to go back to America directly 
after the engagement was announced?” 

“No, no, of course I haven’t met her my- 
self,” answered Mr. Walton, getting a little 
red; “but I heard a lot about her at Dray- 
worth. They’d been expecting her there, 
you know, and natmally we talked about her 
a good deal.” 

“Let me see, where had I got to?” re- 
sumed his wife. “Oh yes — 

“remarkable lady! She wrote as if she’d known 
me all her life and said I was to be sure and give 
her love to Evelyn — both of them, she added! 
What can she mean? I can’t help wondering if 
she is a little off her head. I had heard she was 
very eccentric, but what can she mean by saying 
1219 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


that she ‘always thinks of me as a pattern of 
Selfless Motherhood,’ and that she ‘cannot be 
too thankful that that poor Mr. Howard is in 
the care of a True Woman’? Isn’t it too odd? 
I must show you the letter when you come. For 
you really must make Uncle Bob come this time 
or I shall begin to think he wants to cast off his 
nieces I Do write and suggest a date. Much love 
from your aff. niece. Alice Howard. 

“P.iS. — Did you see the announcement of 
Lord Ranby’s engagement? He is such a friend 
of Dick’s and he hasn’t lost much time in fol- 
lowing his example!” 

‘ ‘Didn’t you say be was one of your party 
at Drayworth, Bob?” 

“Yes, he was there,” said Mr. Walton, 
“and his future father-in-law too, the Arch- 
deacon, you know,” he went on, after a pause 
devoted to exploring the thickness of the ice. 

“Oh yes, isn’t he the man there was all 
that fuss about in the papers the other day? 
I believe I was reading something about him 
in The Church and the World only just now.” 

Mrs. Walton sought for a moment and 
then passed a paper over to her husband 
pointing to a paragraph headed “Heresy in 
High Places.” Mr. Walton took it and read — 

Archdeacon Montford, whose daughter’s en- 
[ 220 ] 


AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE 


gagement to Lord Ranby is just announced, has 
been brought prominently before the religious 
public of late in a very different capacity. The 
Archdeacon has recently become a convert to 
spiritualism, and an address of his last week to 
some of his clergy has caused something of a 
flutter in the episcopal dovecotes. We under- 
stand that the Venerable gentleman claims to 
have assisted at a seance where communication 
was indubitably established with the Other 
World, and that he hotly denounced the preva- 
lent scepticism on the subject in high quarters 
of the Church. We shall look with interest to 
see the line taken by his diocesan, whose pro- 
verbial breadth of mind will be subjected to a 
severe strain. Canon Dawkins, whose letter we 
publish in another column, ridicules the claim 
in his own inimitable vein of humour, and the 
long-standing friendship between the two (to 
which he refers) lends an element of piquancy 
to the situation. The Archdeacon was formerly 
a master at Eton: in fact, we have reason to 
believe that the engagement now announced is 
the outcome of a childish flirtation in the famous 
Eton playing-grounds. We have often pointed 
out that clerical schoolmasters, with their didac- 
tic tendencies and their complete ignorance of 
the parochial life of the Church . . . 

The paper dropped from Mr. Walton’s 
hands, and he gazed absently before him. 

[ 221 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

Half-forgotten sights and sounds floated 
through his brain: he saw once more that 
darkened room: the face at the window, the 
figures on the lawn: he felt once more the 
sustaining arm of Sir Richard, and the sharp 
sting of the soda water on his face: he heard 
again the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Branson 
and the broken accents of Professor Lapski. 
“Poor old England!” he muttered half 
aloud, and with a little smile on his lips. 

“My dear Bob, what is the matter.^” 
cried his wife; ‘ ‘aren’t you feehng well.^ yoiu: 
eyes look perfectly glassy!” 

The brewer pulled himself together with a 
start. 

“Oh, I’m all right,” he said, “I was only 
thinking ” 

“But what were you thinking about.^” 
asked Mrs. Walton; “you muttered some- 
thing about England just now.” 

It is to be feared that Mr. Walton had 
learnt guile from earher experiences, for it 
was without a tremor that he answered: 

“My dear Elizabeth, I was only just say- 
ing to myself what can England be coming to 
when we have such trashy papers as this 
passing themselves off as refigious! There’s 
this one running the World for all it’s worth, 
[ 222 ] 


AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE 


and you know Fve always thought that an- 
other of your favourites was edited by the 
Devil in person! You’ll have one started in 
the interests of the Flesh next, I shouldn’t 
wonder!” 

He laughed at his own joke, and then, 
fearing that he had perhaps carried the jest 
a little too far, he added, “And it isn’t even 
accurate in its worldly news: Ranby was at 
Winchester, not at Eton.” 

At another moment Mrs. Walton would 
have been ready to take up the challenge, 
but she had been a little disturbed at her 
husband’s appearance, and the violence of 
his outburst had only partially reassured her. 

“Oh, I know your views, my dear,” she 
said amicably; ‘ ‘but you can’t deny that Mrs. 
Brown came to us through the Church Times, 
and you know she’s the best cook we ever 
had; so you’ll allow there is some good in 
Church papers after all! But I see you’ve 
got a letter from Arthur there: I wonder if 
he says where his new district is: I wish you’d 
see; I know he expected to hear any time 
now.” 

“You open it and see, my dear,” said Mr. 
Walton, tossing over the letter: “your 
[ 223 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

paper’s taken up so much of my time that 
my egg’s getting cold.” 

Mrs. Walton looked curiously at the for- 
eign envelope: “I can’t make out the post- 
mark,” she said, turning it round in her 
fingers. “There’s an M and an S, and it 
seems to end in AM, but I can’t read the 
rest of it.” 

“Masuhpatam!” cried Mr. Walton loudly. 

“Oh, how clever of you. Bob! I do be- 
heve it is! Yes, that’s right, but how did 
you know.^” 

Mr. Walton was a trifle flushed. “Oh, 
well,” he said, “it’s a pretty well-known 
place, you know: I’ve often heard it spoken 
of.” 

“I must get a map and look it out,” said 
his wife, rising from the table. 

“No, no,” said Mr. Walton, feeling that 
this was more than he could bear; ‘ ‘it is on 
the coast — in the north of Madras, you know 
— abounded on the South-West by the river 
Kistnah. Fancy your not knowing that! 
why, it’s a thing every schoolboy knows,” he 
added shamelessly and with a certain enjoy- 
ment. “I used to be able to simply reel off 
facts about it — ^let me see. Area 5000 square 
miles: population (if I remember right) ap- 
1224] 


AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE 


proximately 520,866; chief commercial crops 
— chay-root, indigo, tobacco, and cotton.” 

Mrs. Walton, though impressed by her 
husband’s erudition, was not paying hinn 
very close attention. “Fancy your remem- 
bering all that!” she said, her eyes on the 
letter which she had opened; “yes, that’s 
it, he’s just gone there: he says the people 
seem a very well-behaved class.” 

Mr. Walton, pleased with his own powers 
of memory, had grown incautious. “Bang, 
Bang!” he murmured rapturously to himself. 

^'What did you say. Bob?” asked his wife, 
looking at him curiously again. 

Was this the innocent brewer of little more 
than a fortnight ago? Was this the brow 
that had blushed to deceive Mr. Ranby in the 
train, this the brain that had boggled at a 
little innocent deception to assist his nephew? 

“I beg your pardon, my dear,” he said 
shamelessly, “I was thinking how I should 
enjoy some shooting in Norfolk,” and he 
playfully adjusted his fork at an imaginary 
partridge. “Bang, bang,” he repeated, 
“with a different intention,” as his wife’s 
new allies might have said. 

“I think you might take a little more 
interest in Arthur’s movements,” said his 

[ 225 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


wife, a trifle huffly; “but I’m glad you think 
we can manage to go to Norfolk: then should 
I write and suggest a day to Alice?” 

“By all means, by all means,” said Mr. 
Walton. “I shall enjoy seeing Alice again, 
and poor little Evelyn too,” he added with a 
chuckle. 

“Why poor little Evelyn?” asked his wife. 

“Oh, didn’t you say he’d just been having 
the measles?” responded the shameless 
brewer. 

Mr. Walton had risen from the table and 
was unfolding the paper, whisthng cheerily 
as he did so. 

“Hulloal” he said; “that’s splendid! 
Dick’s got in all right for Dray worth: here’s 
a full account of the declaration of the poll. 
Listen and I’ll read it to you. 

“DRAYWORTH ELECTION 
“Declaration of the Poll 

“The result of the poll was declared last night 
by the Mayor at Dray worth Town Hall. The 
figures were as follows: 

Sir Richard Atherton, Bart., M.C., 

Coal. Anti-Waste .... 12,407 

Thomas Harvey, Ind. Lib. . . 7,302 


Majority .... 5,105 

[ 226 ] 


AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE 

“The successful candidate (who was accom- 
panied by YAs fiancee, Miss Diana Branson) pro- 
posed a vote of thanks to the Mayor. He said 
that no words of his were needed to emphasise 
the meaning of the figures which the Mayor had 
read. Dray worth has given the Wasters notice 
to quit (cheers). The election had been con- 
ducted in a most sporting spirit, and he was glad 
to think that it would leave no bitter feelings 
behind it (cheers). He could not help taking 
that opportunity of thanking all those who had 
worked for him so gallantly, and they would 
forgive him if he gave the first place to the young 
lady who stood at his side (loud applause) . He 
must also give a special word of thanks to his 
friend and secretary. Captain England, who, in 
the unfortunate circumstances which had kept 
him occasionally away from the constituency 
(laughter) , had so ably represented him on many 
platforms throughout the district. (Hear, hear.) 
He was the best man he knew in a tight place, 
and he hoped soon to find him occupation in a 
similar capacity elsewhere (loud laughter and 
applause). Mr. Harvey briefly seconded the 
vote of thanks, which was unanimously carried. 

“ We understand that the wedding of the new 
member has been fixed for an early date and will 
take place in Chicago.” 

‘‘Good old Dick!” said Mr. Walton 

[ 227 ] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 

warmly; ‘ ‘I’m delighted he’s got in. Diana’ll 
be pleased too.” 

“Who is that Captain England he talks 
so much about?” inquired his wife; “did 
you meet him while you were down at Dray- 
worth?” 

Mr. Walton meditated for a moment, 
taking cover behind the paper. “No,” he 
said at last slowly, “no, I didn’t meet 
England: he was away electioneering while 
I was in Shropshire. But I heard a lot about 
him, and from all I heard he must be a 
remarkable young man, a very remarkable 
young man!” 


1228] 


EPILOGUE 


Our revels now are ended: these our actors . . . 

Are melted into air, into thin air. 

Shakespeare. 


N October 22nd Mrs. Branson and 
Captain England stood together 
in a Chicago drawing-room. Both 
showed signs of fatigue, but there 
was on both their countenances, 
even on that of the gloomy cap- 
tain, an unmistakable air of satisfaction. 

“Well, that was just a lovely wedding,” 
said Mrs. Branson, sinking into a chair with 
a sigh; ‘ ‘it is beautiful to think of those two 
young things and the sweet and lovely life 
they’ll lead in that very handsome house. I 
do wish more of Richard’s family could have 
been here, but it’s a long way, and there’s 
more folk than poor dear Chetwode who have 
no fancy for sea travel. But they’ve written 
some sweet letters to Diana. There’s a 
Lady Mary Summers, now, who seems to be 
some sort of cousin of his, who’s sent her a 
darling little brooch and a letter too. Diana 
[ 229 ] 



THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


wouldn’t let me see it, but she said it was just 
too sweet. And Dick’s Uncle Bob, too, 
who’d been some sort of great gun in India 
— we met him down at Drayworth — ^he 
wrote a most beautiful letter, saying he must 
look out some of his Indian treasures for her 
when she got over. And then there’s Lord 
Ranby too — ^he’s sent a picture, St. Paul’s 
disappearing in a fog: he says it’s symbolic, 
though I don’t quite know what he means by 
that — but Richard was tickled to death and 
says he’s going to send him a picture of St. 
Peter’s coming out of the mist for his present. 
I think it’s just too nice of him to remember, 
and he just going to be married to that sweet 
Miss Montford! And the Archdeacon too 
— ^he wrote saying he would never forget 
those days at Drayworth. 

‘ ‘But the thing that pleased me most of all. 
Captain England,” went on the good lady, 
‘ ‘was a real lovely loving-cup from the 
gentlemen we met at Drayworth. Not that 
I hold with loving-cups myself, but Dick’s 
given me his solemn promise he’ll never use 
it for anything but cider. I must have you 
see that!” 

She rose and led the way into the next 
room. “Isn’t it just too cunning?” she 
[ 230 ] 


epilogue 

said, displaying a fine old loving-cup which 
stood in the place of honour among the 
presents. “It’s got an inscription on it too, 
I declare! ” she went on. ‘ ‘I hadn’t seen that 
before. 

‘Sept. 1-3. M.S. R. W. P. R.’ 

Well, if that isn’t cute.^ but what does M. S. 
stand for.^ P. R., that’s Lord Ranby, who 
pretended he was his brother Paul, you know, 
till the Archdeacon and Professor Lapski 
proved to him he wasn’t anything of the 
kind. And R. W., that’s Mr. Walton; but, 
who’s M. S..^ It can’t be Mrs. Howard: 
and now I remember that I’ve not heard from 
her: who can it be ? ” 

Captain England pulled himself together 
for a final effort. “ I fancy,” he said, “ it 
must be the abbreviation of two Latin words 
Memoriae sacrum — sacred to the memory, you 
know: you often find it in old inscriptions.” 

“ Well, what a thing it is to be a real 
scholar,” said Mrs. Rranson admiringly, as 
she replaced the cup ; “ and did they teach 
you all that at Eton ? ” 

She led the way back to the drawing-room : 
“ That’ll be something to tell Lady Mary 
when I meet her at Christmas,” thought the 
Captain ; “ but it was a near thing.” 

[231] 


THROUGH THE SHADOWS 


“ Well, Mrs. Branson,” he said aloud, 
“ I’m afraid I must be going. I can’t thank 
you enough for all yom* hospitality. And 
now I know you must want to get rid of me, 
for you’ll be getting ready for your trip down 
South.” 

“ Well, that’s true enough,” said Mrs. 
Branson ; “ say. Captain England, I sup- 
pose you never met a friend of Dick’s called 
Professor Lapski ? I met him at Dray- 
worth and I’ve been trying all I know to get 
his address, but Dick says he’s gone abroad 
and he can’t find out where he is.” 

“ I’m afraid not,” said Captain England ; 
“ I’ve heard Dick speak of him, but I don’t 
think I ever saw him. No, I’m sure we’ve 
never met.” 

“ Well, I’m real sorry for that,” said Mrs. 
Branson, “ for I know you’d just love him. 
I can’t help feeling you two would have a 
great deal in common.” 

The topic was a little dangerous, and 
England hastened his adieux. As he stepped 
on to that Boulevard which poor Mr. Branson 
had never accepted as a substitute for the 
Blue Mountains of his own Virginia, he 
paused to light a cigarette. 

“ Dear old lady,” he said to himself, 
[ 232 ] 


EPILOGUE 

“I’m afraid she’ll get awfully bored with 
that fortnight’s soHtude ! I almost wish I’d 
cut it down to a week. But I’m afraid she’ll 
find it precious hard to get in touch with 
Lapski again ! ” 


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